


Friendship ended with worms, Now centipedes are my best friend

by RiceNoodlesAndCrime



Series: WTNV and TMA crossover [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast), Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: (or does it?), 160 apocalypse doesn't happen, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bugs & Insects, Canon-Typical Bugs, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hopeful Ending, Humor, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I'll add tags as I go along, Language, Multi, Spoilers for MAG 160, Typical Night Vale Weirdness, but i'll edit later i promise, canon typical bugs, discussion of self-mutliation, inspired by the book It Devours!, minor sucidal idealation, now with plot!, spoilers for book but they're not major, spoilers for later night Vale episodes like up to 137 I think, the joyous congregation cult, tw manipulation (as in spooky supernatural stuff)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:40:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 27,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24695398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiceNoodlesAndCrime/pseuds/RiceNoodlesAndCrime
Summary: “What are you guys doing?”Jon jumped, brandishing his rib while Martin held up his shoe threateningly and scrambled for the chair. They both lowered their “weapons” when the realized who it was in the doorway though.“Basira,” Martin said, still halfway on the chair. His foot without the shoe was dangled in the air, nicely showing off his sock, “Uh...nice new scarf.”
Relationships: Basira Hussain & Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Carlos/Cecil Palmer, Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: WTNV and TMA crossover [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2014579
Comments: 71
Kudos: 228





	1. The Jacket Centipedes

“...Statement Ends.”

Jonathan Sims, The archivist, the avatar of the eye, set down another statement. He took advantage of the small intermission to stretch out his tired muscles, leaning back in his seat and listening to the more than familiar hiss of the tape recorder.

“Ah...” he sat up with a deep breath, “Mrs. Rosita Parker is quite lucky. The events described in her statement – while devastating – seem to be relatively harmless compared to most of the cases here. According to the follow up supplied by Martin-” he paused to drink from a steaming mug “-along with this lovely cup of tea – most of her personal belongings were replaced and paid for by insurance companies, including the house. Aside from her distaste towards bugs and minor scratches and wounds, she was unharmed and had no trouble moving to an apartment in London.”

Jon took a second to close his eyes and prepare himself for the turning point in the statement; the tipping point that meant this was more than just a one-off event. His posture curled closer to the recorder, as if sharing some embarrassing secret, “Although, there are some things that don’t add up: The increasingly frequent appearances of centipedes around her home would point towards The Corruption. But her description of the floor heating underneath her to the point that it was unbearable, and the ‘mysterious strangers with triangles’ appearing nearby suggests interference of the Lightless Flame. Not to mention the fact that her house was seemingly devoured by the ground, which might allude to the buried?”

He ran his hands through his hair, breathing out sharply in what was almost a laugh, “Gerry wasn’t lying, the fears do seem to bleed together like colors, the surfaces muddied constantly as they mix together to form some sort of... _cocktail_ of fear. _Ugh_ ,” he shuddered, “It’s hard to tell them apart sometimes,”

“Right, well, if my luck’s anything to go by, we’ll be getting more info on this new enemy soon. End statement-"

A scream made its way to Jon’s ears, muffled by his office door. He stood abruptly, looking through the door’s warped glass with all his eyes. The ones that seemed to hover somewhere between physical objects and illusions hovering around his two original ones.

Jon clawed at his pockets, looking for a weapon he knew wasn’t there. He rummaged through his drawers, desperate hands locking with a death grip on his rib. He examined it, keeping some eyes on the door. At least it was sharp.

_Holy shit!_

The voice was faint but indistinguishable.

His grip loosened for a second.

Was that-

“ _Martin!”_

Jon didn't even bother to turn off the recorder. If anything, it would turn itself off. He burst through the door, running down the halls of preoccupied archival staff who were mildly concerned to see their boss running around with something that looked like a human bone in his hands. But most of them just mumbled about it to their coworkers before going back to work. The archival staff was always kind of weird.

Jon felt a pang of jealousy as he popped into the offices of all these ordinary people and called out Martin’s name. People who were able to shrug off the unordinary like a bothersome mosquito before heading inside their bug-proof homes. Jon and Martin and the rest of the staff were never able to go inside. To shrug off the strange occurrences as tricks of the light or coincidences. They had to stay out in the thick of it, battling with forces they barely understood and never able to completely shake off the forces of fear that haunted huamnity.

Never able to catch their breath. Just one damn thing after another. Jane Prentis’s invasion. Nikola Orsinov’s demented ritual. Peter Lucas’s torments. Elias Bouchard – or, Jonah Magnus’s barely avoided attempted at the literal fear apocalypse.

And now whatever this was.

Jon finally caught sight of Martin in the break room, balancing awkwardly on a chair but otherwise unharmed. Breathing in a sigh of relief, he surged forward from the doorway.

“Martin, what-”

“Jon, _look out_! Watch your step!”

He looked down, yelped, and promptly scrambled up the chair as Martin had.

The centipede was a big and black wriggling mass under Martin’s blue jacket. It was wriggling its brown antennae teasingly towards Jon, its many legs scuttling towards the archivist’s perch. He shuddered as it zigzagged around the table legs to his chair.

Jon waited for it to get close enough before diving down to stab it with his rib, narrowly missing. The centipede reared up on its back legs, looking almost comically offended before squeezing through the floorboards and disappearing.

“Oh, good god. Jon, _look_.”

He did, “Fuck, there’s _more?!”_

They watched three more hissing centipedes wiggle out from under Martin’s jacket and disappear between the cracks in the floor. The two stared at the jacket, and then each other.

Martin carefully took off one of his shoes, and Jon gripped his bone. They both counted down from three.

3.

Martin readied his shoe.

2.

Jon scanned the jacket for any movement with his many, many eyes. They cast the room in a neon green glow.

1.

Jon tugged the jacket off and they both jumped back, waiting to see if any more vile bugs started crawling out.

There weren’t.

“What are you guys doing?”

Jon jumped, brandishing his rib while Martin held up his shoe threateningly and scrambled onto the chair. They both lowered their “weapons” when the realized who it was in the doorway though.

“Basira,” Martin said, still halfway on the chair. His foot without the shoe was dangled in the air, nicely showing off his sock, “Uh...nice new scarf.”

“What’re you two doing?” she repeated, leaning against the doorway.

Jon twirled his rib in his hand, “You make it sound like we’re children,”

Basira lifted an eyebrow, unimpressed, “Well, that’s how I talk to two middle-aged men who I just saw threaten an article of clothing with a _loafer_ and their own _rib_. So, unless you start explaining the situation, I’m going to keep sounding like that.”

“Fair point.”

Martin put his shoe back on and picked up his jacket, laying it against the table smoothly before sitting down. Jon and Basira sat down too, looking at Martin expectantly.

Martin huffed, “When I was interviewing Rosita, I kept getting this weird itchy feeling, like my clothes tag was poking me or something.” he absentmindedly scratched his neck, “I just ignored it, figured it was old warm paranoia kicking in at the wrong time. Eventually, I just took off my jacket. And that-" he pulled a face “that _thing_ was wrapped around the tag, like-like it was some sort of blanket or something! It was almost…cute?” Martin looked very conflicted on whether he should be horrified or cooing in memory of a snuggled up centipede hidden in the fold of his jacket.

“A-and I dropped it here – on the floor – and, Jon, then you came in. And you tried to attack it with your...” Martin frowned, realizing, “Jon, is that your rib?”

“...Yes.”

“Right so...so you - Jon – he attacked it with his rib, and it just disappeared into the floor, along with a bunch of others that were hiding in my pockets.” he shook his head, “Still don’t know how I didn’t realize they were there,”

Basira considered his words, “Hmm...and what about the paper?”

“What paper?”

“The one in your jacket pockets.” she tugged out a folded pamphlet, eyeing the suspiciously red fingerprints on the paper, “Is that blood?”

“Let me see...” Jon set down his bone casually and unfolded the pamphlet, “ _The Joyous Congregation of The Smiling God welcomes you: Joyfully it Devours!”_

“So, cult stuff?”

“Yes, Martin” John quickly flipped through, grimacing at the cartoonishly gory drawings in the pamphlet, “ _Definitely_ cult stuff. Though, I would have thought The corruption would want to wait longer before attempting another ritual; It’s only been a few years,”

Basira nodded along, “You think it’s a sign of a ritual?”

“Maybe...” Jon flipped to the end, “Maybe...Martin?”

He twidled his thumbs, tracing the designs in the coffee table before meeting their gazes, “What if it’s Jonah? What if he’s behind this?”

Jon considered the paper, “Doesn’t seem his style, getting his hands dirty.” he quickly wiped away a bloodstain that had transferred from the paper to his finger with a look of disgust, “literally,”

“I know, I know. But we haven’t heard from in him in a while, you know? And now this? A ritual? He’s still looking for ways to complete the Watchers crown,” he pouted (Which Jon thought was adorable), “He’s one of those Disney Villains who doesn’t think ahead at all. _Oh ho ho! Let me just destroy the world so I can rule over it as king, ha **ha**! I’m sure **this** will last forever and have no repercussions at all!_”

Basira let out a snort, “Yeah, bet his idol was Dr. Doofenshmirtz.”

The tension in the room lightened as they snickered and thought of Jonah Magnus building a giant eye-shaped lazer beam or some other weird apocalypse machine.

Jon stopped for a second, smiling faintly and considering Martin's thoughts. He had to admit: Martin had a point. After he had knocked the watchers crown ritual statement from Jon's shaking hands and rushed back to the archives to confront Jonah Magnus the head office had sat empty. No one knew where he was. This had gotten the police's attention off them and the archives for the most part, which was a plus. They were mostly focused on locating Magnus, which was exactly what Jon and the rest of the archives staff had been attempting these last few weeks, scanning his emptied office that had been stripped clean by officers like vultures on a carcass.

Basira had finally gotten the few links they had remaining to the police to give them access to some of the tapes found in Jonah's office. Rosita's had been the most recent one.

Which had led to where they were now.

“You might be right, Martin.” Jon flipped the pamphlet over, pointing to the address listed at the bottom, “Looks like we at least have a lead.”

Basira pushed back the chair and stood, “Right. We’ll take my car; it already has some supplies in it.” she went to walk off but stopped in the doorway, “Oh and, guys?”

“Yes?”

“Yep?”

“Get some proper weapons next time.”


	2. Take me To Church

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin curses! (And he's the one with the brain cell this time)

Jon whistled, “Damn that’s...that’s uh.” he raked his fingers through his white-streaked hair, “Jesus, Basira, is that a shotgun?” 

The three archival staff stood at the back of a car, watching as the owner of said car dug around the trunk until she pulled out an assortment of knives and dumped them onto a shelf in the dusty old garage. 

“Yes. It is.” she brushed back her scarf, “Been collecting them since I started working here” her hands glided over the organized assortment of traps, fire extinguishers, hand-cuffs, weapons, and what looked to be- 

“Basira, are those Nutella jars?” Martin asked. 

She paused, “Yeah,” 

“Oh...why-” 

“Daisy liked them.” Basira snapped, tugging out an axe that glinted in the dull light, “She - um – used to just crave sweet stuff after the buried, said it got rid of the taste of dirt.” she set down the axe and loosened the grip with considerable effort. 

“Oh,” Martin faltered, “I-I’m sorry.” 

Basira didn’t respond, taking out a handgun and checking it with ominous metallic clicks. Jon stayed quiet, caught up in his own concerns about Daisy. 

_And Daisy?_

_Bestial. Brutal. Carving her way through humans and beasts alike, following the scent of blood..._

“Basira. We’re going to find her,” Martin said with utmost confidence, cutting off Basira as she tried to interject, “No - _no_. We will. And we’ll get her back,” 

“Martin, you can’t promise she’ll be,” Jon sighed, shifting from where he leaned on Basira’s car, “' _'_ _a_ _ll there’_ when we find her.” 

Martin snorted, crossing his arms, “Bullshit.” he caught Jon’s shocked glance, “No, that – that's bullshit, Jon.” 

“Martin...” Basira put down her gun on the table. 

“And it’s not just optimism, Basira.” He said, “All the avatars that completely went rogue? Annabelle Cane and Jude Perry and the others? They all had one thing in common: they had no anchor to humanity, nothing to hold them back from going full-” he curled his hands into claws “-full on beast-mode, you know?” 

“So, what?” Basira asked, though it was more curiosity than accusation, “Am I her anchor?” 

“I mean, yes, essentially.” 

“Oh,” 

“All of us, really.” He clarified, smiling, “And the Nutella. And that band she likes – I um, can’t remember the name of it but the _point_ is that she’s _still in there. Because_ of those anchors...” his voice softened, “But mostly you, Basira. I mean, you’ve known her for years so,” he met her gaze straight on “you’re her closest tie.” 

She was silent as dust rose and twirled in the blinking light of the single bulb garage. 

“Guess I’ll keep the Nutella,” she finally said, gently brushing the jars with her fingers, “just in case...” 

“Good!” 

“Right, now that heart to heart is done,” Jon pushed off the car, plucking a random knife from the pile (he had no idea how to handle a gun, so this would have to do) and hefting a fire extinguisher under his shoulder, “let’s go kill some centipedes.” 

“Wow.” Martin snickered. 

“What?” 

Basira shoved her pistol into her pocket, “Way to ruin the moment, Jon.” 

“ _What?_ " 

Martin shook his head, picking up and weighting an axe in his palms, “Absolutely heartless, Jon. Absolutely heartless,” 

“Oh, _come on._ ” 

The car doors clicked as they all got in, armed with their weapons of choice. The dust kicked up as they left the garage and drove out into the setting light. 

~ 

The darkness was setting in by the time they reached the church, the last rays of sunlight caressing the sandstone walls of the church. The letter changing sign in front read _Joyfully! It Devours!_ Matin...really didn’t want to think about what ‘it’ was. Or How it would ‘devour’ joyfully. 

They all filed out of the car, Basira holding her gun by her side, searching eyes scanning the church for a less conspicuous entrance than the old oak doors sitting in front. Martin awkwardly hold his axe by his side, looking around the ground for any more centipedes and pulling at his jacket. Jon standing in the shifting shadows of the tree branches that surrounded the street they had parked at and concentrating, green eyes blooming like flowers around him. 

“Anyone there?” Basira’s scarf blew in the wind, tree shadows dancing over her before the sun’s dying light returned. 

“ _ **Yes** , _" Jon relaxed and the static that they hadn’t even realized was there faded, “Not too many, just a few late-night members cleaning up. Any plans on what to do once we get there?” 

“Look for any clues that Magnus was there, or any other suspicious stuff.” 

“That’s an objective, Basira.” 

“Fine,” She started walking towards the church, “ _Step one_ of the plan: Go behind the church and find a back entrance.” 

“Side note: Watch out for bugs.” Martin added quickly, keeping a careful hold on the mini fire extinguisher as he fell into step with Basira. He didn’t actually _know_ if the extinguisher would work on anything other than worms, but he kept in close just in case. 

They speed-walked to the church, hiding behind the trees and ducking under the stained-glass windows. Martin was almost enjoying this, sneaking around and trying not to get caught. He um...had a lot of practice with it, with him mother and everything. But in _this_ context, it was almost exhilarating. 

But also, pretty terrifying. Because of the centipedes. And the cult. And the fact that they might encounter Jonah Magnus. 

Speaking of Magnus... 

“When we find Magnus...” 

“Yes?” 

They were currently hiding behind a wall, the rough stone digging into their backs as they waited for a man to get out of the view of the only colorless window there. Martin traced the wire in the glass frames with his eyes, and he could just barely see the shapes of the doves that the wires created. 

“What do we do? I mean, we can’t _kill_ him. Beating heart and all,” Martin whispered, “I mean, can we trap him somewhere? _Disconnect_ him from the institute? Maybe – Ooo ! _Maybe_ we can exorcise him! Get rid of the spirit of Jonah Magnus through some sort of ceremony and then trap that spirit in his body and _burnt it_!” 

“Shhh.” 

“Sorry,” Jon nodded, and they dashed past the last of the windows, slowing down as they came to the back. 

“Jeez, Martin.” Jon said, “Since when were you so... _murdery?”_

“Since Jonah tried to use you to end the world,”

Jon froze, pleasantly surprised, “Oh...” 

“Aw,” Basira said drily, borrowing Martin's axe and chopped off the lock on the back doors, prying open the rusty hinges and wincing as they creaked open to reveal a dark shadowy entrance, “you two are _so_ adorable.” 

Jon huffed, “Not adorable.” 

“Okay, not true!” 

“Look, just-" a few more glowing eyes popped opened as he leaned into the entrance, “Does everyone have a torch?” 

“Yep!” Martin and Basira flicked on their torches, shining the beams into the ominous entrance. He shifted his weight on his feet. 

“Ready, everyone?” Jon gripped the knife tightly. 

“Not really but,” Martin let the sentence go unfinished. It didn’t need to be finished; they all already knew the answer when they stared into the void of the doorway. 

The wind rustled the leaves of the trees, whistling through the branches and reminding Martin of whispers. The last of the sunlight left as they entered the churches doors. 


	3. Watchers Crown 2: Electric Boogaloo

“Well, this is disappointing,” 

“ _Martin!_ ” Jon whispered urgently, “ _keep your voice down!_ " 

There had been no ominous skeletons or treacherous beasts or even any spooky music when they crossed the threshold, just a dusty closet full of old magazines and identical pamphlets. The torch beams bounced across the floors and the room as they snuck around, rooting through boxes full of billing files and church posters 

“I agree,” Basira nudged aside a box with her foot, reaching the other side of the closet. “This is just some storage facility, not anything important here. Jon?” 

“Yes?” 

“Anyone outside this door?” 

Green light filled the room as Jon concentrated on Seeing, the eyes around him popping open was...disconcerting. Martin held himself back from gently poking one, just to see what would happen. 

“ _ **No** ” _the eyes slowly closed back up and disappeared into the darkness, “Let’s go.” 

The door creaked open, and they tip-toed through the halls. On one side of the hallway they ended up in a sort of lobby, the wooden door’s they’d seen in front. Jon stepped towards the door and gripped its odd, spikey handles, letting go quickly when he realized that they were shaped like centipedes. Covering the walls were posters and cross stitchings that said things like ‘ _joyfully It devours!’_ or _'All Hail the Smiling God’,_ each of them crooked or off-center or with large holes in them. Jon didn’t need any powers to know what had caused those holes. 

He peeked into the small greeting desk, spotting something scuttling off the counter. Black, many-legged, but too small to be a centipede. Jon felt the hair on his neck raise. 

“Alright, I think we should go for now-" 

“ _Whoa,_ ” Martin stopped at a large set of doors, pushing open the small crack between them with a gentle touch. “Guys,” 

Basira and Jon walked up behind him. 

Jon’s breath left him, and he trembled in equal parts of awe and terror as he strode forward. 

It was a huge room with an arching roof, 14 different stained-glass windows full of vibrant colors. The pews were dark and almost decaying, coming free and crumbling to the ground at one touch. Jon could feel the tension of so many gazes, so many fears, thick and oppressive hang in the air. He shivered at the weight of it. 

“Jon?” Martin hesitantly placed a hand on Jon’s shoulder, but Jon didn’t notice him or the eyes beginning to split open around them. Instead, Jon went very still, glowing eyes locking onto the stained glass behind the stage of the church.

 _“ **The preacher waits in naivety** ," _faintly, he was aware he should be fighting against the tidal wave of words spilling from his lips, “ **_twiddling_ _her thumbs and trusting The Eye to carry out her wishes of a corrupted world._ _Technically_ **_**, the eye is not lying. Their god will rule, but it will not control.** ” _

“What’s wrong with him?” 

_“_ I-I don’t know!” 

_“ **The Smiling God shall reign, but It shall only be among its only biome of fear. Stuck and pinned under the shadow of The Watcher’s ceaseless gaze, like all the others.** ” _

Martin shook him, “Jon, wake up!” 

“Fuck! We shouldn’t have come here!” 

“ ** _It sees through each window here, in this_ _decrypted_ _home of those who seek to_ _taint_ _with their_ _presence_ **_**.** ” _

"Okay, that’s it!” Basira hefted up her flashlight like a club, “Move out of the way, Martin.” 

“No! Don’t” he held her back. 

“Martin!” 

“ _ **I call to you, beings of fear.** ” _Jon stood completely still as the eyes surrounding him swiveled to light up one of the closest stained-glass windows. It had a giant centipede, exploding out from an oaken door. Underneath the door were hundreds, thousands of intricately made wriggling shapes that made Martin’s skin crawl just seeing them. 

“ _ **Those who wriggle and squirm and corrupt the earth.** ” _

The window gleamed and shone brightly. It was as if the sun was shining directly through it. The light blinded both Basira and Martin as they grappled with each other. Jon took no notice, fists clenching and releasing again and again as the words continued to be hooked and reeled out from his throat. 

“ _ **Those who pull and twist and manipulate the strings that bind us.** ” _

The opposite window – one with lines that splayed out from a fat bulbous spider, sitting proudly in the middle – started to glow as well. 

“ _ **Those who distance and seclude and ensnare in the choking fog of isolation** ” _

A window showing a small figure in the distance, shrouded by fog, started glowing. 

Martin sighed sharply and released Basira. 

She charged forward. 

“ ** _Those who burn and decimate and_ **_**destroy precious lives.** ” _

The flames in the window with a burning home almost looked real as light flared behind them. 

Basira jumped back with a yelp as she spotted the squirming, darting shapes around Jon’s feet. Centipedes crawled out of the rotting wood of the pews and the cross stitches on the walls without the windows. They crawled over his shoes and circled him as a single hive mind. 

“Shit!” 

_“ **Those who spin and lose themselves and spiral inside the prison of their very own mind** ”_

  
The window with the door surrounded by multi-colored shards of glass, laced with wire to make it looked as if the window had been shattered, grew brighter. 

Jon’s distorted words were drowned out by the sounds of a fire extinguisher. And then his words were drowned out by the tiny piercing shrieks of centipedes. 

“ _ **Those who hide and act and perform, masked under another’s face.** ” _

A window depicting a dark shadowy humanoid figure. It wore a bleeding and smiling clown mask, lit up as if a stage light had been turned on behind the glass. 

“Damnit! There’s just _more_ of them,” 

“Do you have another?” 

“No, dammit! I could only carry this.” 

“ _ **Those who hide and blind and shroud themselves in darkness till they are unknowable. "** _

This was the simplest window, with only a small lightbulb on a dark murky glass that you could barely see light shining through. 

“Jon, _please.”_ Martin’s voice broke. 

“ _ **Those who are muscle and sinew and twist flesh until it bleeds blood-red tears."**_

A particularly disgusting window showing a butcher surrounded by various corpses (some of which looking vaguely human), twisting a slice of meat into the shape of a rose. The drops of blood falling from the flower’s fleshy red thorns shined in the light like they hadn’t dried. 

“We have to smash them” Basira realized. 

“What?” 

“The windows! Quickly,” 

“ _ **Those who shoot and slice and ravish the once-populated lands with endless violence."** _

A fox stood, smiling slyly and surrounded by its fallen comrades, holding tightly to a shard of bright red glass that cut into its paws. The dead foxes were spotted in red and laid with their legs splayed out in odd angles. The toothy grin of the fox became blinding as more light filled the church. 

The sounds of breaking glass echoed around the room, but The Archivist’s words were too powerful to overshadow now. 

_“ **Those who choke and are trapped and cannot**_ **_breathe_ **_**for the panic and the dust clogging their lungs**." _

The woman in the window was trapped beneath layers and layers of dirt, like some morbid chocolate cake. Her dusty tears were illuminated, casting her panicked expression into high definition. 

Some of the centipedes broke from their ring around The Archivist to tug at their clothes. Martin shook another off and smashed his axe into the stained glass, covering his eyes with his arm as the shards rained down. 

“ ** _Those who fall and flail and lose themselves in the endless blue of sea and sky."_**

It was just a sheet of blue, with a speck of dark glass shaped like a person in the middle. The faintest pinpricks of light were starting to shine through when Basira’s gunshot through the surprisingly strong glass three times before it rained down in sheets onto the church's floors. The centipedes scuttled frenziedly around, trying to climb up her. She smashed them into a sickly greenish-yellow paste under her heel. 

“ ** _Those who run and chase and stalk their prey for_ _eternity_** _ **.** ” _

A wolf, its jaw unhinged. Lip curled in a mirthless grin as a wounded rabbit ran from it. Martin smashed it before Jon had started the next sentence. 

“ _ **Those who fall and stop and whose stories eventually come to an end.** ” _

The window with the man walking towards a group of people, unable to stop his legs, was already smashed into smithereens. 

Only one more to go. Basira ran for the largest window in the front of the room, behind the stage. But she had to stop to shake off the hordes of centipedes nipping at her heels. 

“Basira-” 

“ _GO!”_

_“ **And above them all,** ” _ Jon stood tall as the centipedes circled him, mandibles clicking in anticipation, “ **_Those who see and know and watch terror devour this world._** ” 

The light tower, sitting on a cliffside above the crashing and bubbling waves, with the eye hovering above made of pale green glass, began to glow. The brightness was harsh and put everything into painfully excruciating detail. 

Martin surged forward with the axe held high. 

“ ** _Join us, O great watcher and all its subjects. I. Open. The. DOOR!_**" 

The wind howled through the broken glass as these final words were spoken, the first screams of a destroyed world seeping through into reality. It almost sounded musical as the ritual took hold of the Earth and slowly turned it upside down-

They were all silenced with the sound of an axe slamming against broken glass. 

The wind stopped. The light blinked out. Jon fell like a puppet cut from its strings. The centipedes screeched and wiggled back under the dusty floorboard or into the rotting pews or into the cross stitchings sitting on the walls. 

Martin and Basira heaved in heavy relieved breaths. 

Then Martin smashed his axe into the window again. And again. And a third time, slamming it down onto the glass eye from where it sat in jagged pieces on the ground and splitting it like wood. 

He looked up at Basira, panting. 

She shot the eye point blank, just for good measure. 

She looked up at Martin. And they laughed, relief pooling in their eyes. They laughed until their sides hurt, and they had to sit down together on the small part of the stage that wasn’t covered in glass. 

“...Martin?” 

Martin dropped the axe, running to Jon’s side before Basira could warn him of anything. 

“Jon,” his eyes welled up again, “Jon, you’re back – oh, Jon.” 

They wrapped their arms around each other, holding onto their world tightly. 

A slow clapping broke the silence. 

“Excellent work, you three!” 

Jon and Martin looked up from their embrace. Basira made to shoot her gun, but not a single bullet was left. 

“Ah, sorry dear.” said Annabelle Cane, leaning against the entrance of the church, “But I made sure you’d run out of bullets by now. What can I say?” she winked, “Pays to think ahead,” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey so, the story is going in a different direction than I originally thought? But I like how this chapter came out.
> 
> Also: the window for the slaughter is based on a window described in the book It Devours!


	4. Mrs. Spider Wants To Talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw discussion of self-mutilation, Tw self-harm discussion, (all canon typical but there just in case)

“Why are you here?” 

They were sat in a church office, Annabelle sitting behind the desk while they all sat on the other side. Basira fidgeted with her gun, clicking the trigger of the empty gun angrily. Jon still looked like he was in shock, staring through Annabelle as Martin took initiative and questioned her. 

“Straight to business!” Annabelle laughed, her polished and sharp nails twirling silky strands between her fingers, “I _love_ it,” 

Martin, incredibly emotionally frayed from having to go from a normal day at the archives (well, normal for employees of the Magnus Institute) to sneaking into a spooky cult church to stopping the apocalypse (again) to _finally_ meeting the spider avatar herself, was about to jump out of his seat. He didn’t know if he’d start shouting at Annabelle or sobbing or just launch at her with his axe, but shit was going down. 

Apparently, Jon - even in his ritual-shocked state - realized this. Martin felt Jon’s calloused hand slip into his, and squeeze tightly. He squeezed back and remained in his seat while Jon leaned forward. 

“ ** _Why are you here?_ **" His voice was hoarse but still buzzed with static. 

“To make sure my plans go over smoothly,” Annabelle grimaced, her hands stopping their weaving “And I would appreciate if you _didn’t_ do that.” 

“Then tell us why the _hell_ you brought us to this cursed chapel,” Jon said. 

“Oh please, Archivist. I already made it perfectly clear I don’t control _any_ of your actions.” the spider purred, “You made the choice to come here yourself, and all I did was nudge the corruption to make Rosita their next target. I admit, I strung a few of my webs on that pamphlet of yours, but only to make _sure_ it fell into your hands.” 

“I thought the spider didn’t want the apocalypse to happen, that they just want things to stay as they are.” 

“I do!” 

Basira scoffed, “Then why did you want Jon to do that ritual?” 

A spider inched down a strand of string from the ceiling, landing on Annabelle’s web scar and perching in the center as she talked. “Jonah was terribly upset when his plans were ruined, and turned to The Joyful Congregation for a backup plan. He got that little priestess wrapped around his finger! She actually believes he’s designed the church in order to summon her Smiling God! Ah! I was almost impressed at the levels of deceit and planning, all the dancing around questions he did,” she smiled as if nostalgic. 

“However,” she continued, “He designed her new church to concentrate the different powers. Each piece of glass in this beautiful building of worship tainted with one of the fears under his personal watch. The Eye window you destroyed? Made from parts of the Panopticon itself. The lonely, made from glass from the Lukas estate. The Vast one donated by the Fairchild's. Blah bla blah – you get the gist.” 

Jon frowned, “Why windows?” 

She grinned, “To See through,” 

“Ah...I see,” 

“Yes, that’s what they’re for, Archivist.” 

Jon startled, “I - what – I mean-” 

Annabelle laughed, knocking some spiders from her hair, “Oh, it’s so much fun seeing humans twist themselves into a knot. Your brains are so pliant, you know?” 

Basira placed her empty gun on the desk and pulled out her knife instead, “Shut up, and tell us why the fuck you’re here.” 

Annabelle didn't look remotely threatened. Instead, she chuckled again, cruel and full of nothing but perverted joy, “See? Pliant,” 

“There was a fatal flaw in Jonah’s plan, however. One he made when he first tried to get The Archivist to read that faux statement.” she locked eyes with Martin, “He didn’t consider...outside factors. You interrupted him, Martin. He didn't anticipate that. But he _will_ make sure not to make the same mistake,"

“So... he wants to kill _me_?” 

Jon had been drifting off a bit, still exhausted from once again being the mouthpiece of Jonah Magnus. But at Martin’s words, he shook himself awake. Several glowing eyes opened, piercing Martin and Annabelle with their weighty gazes. 

“He wanted to Isolate Jon before starting ritual,” she explained, “and if that meant killing you, then yes.” 

Realization dawned on Jon, and the eyes grew brighter around him, “So you lead us here early, betting on Martin and Basira to mess up the ritual.” 

She snapped her fingers, “Precisely! And well done on that part. Didn’t even need my little inhuman helpers waiting in the church to pitch in,” 

“W-wait but-” Martin said, “Why couldn’t _you_ just destroy this place?” 

Annabelle lowered her voice conspiratorially, “Sometimes, when you get too close to the fly in your web, it knocks you off...” she winked. 

“...” 

“...” 

“... sorry, what?” 

“... Ugh, _fine.”_ Annabelle leaned back in her chair, “I needed you to start the ritual first. The windows are most vulnerable when the light starts shining through them,” she grumbled under her breath. 

Jon nodded, “Won’t Jonah realize his ritual is destroyed?” 

“Oh, most _definitely_ _!_ _In fact_ ,” she checked her phone, which had a cute pink spider web pattern on the cover, “He’s coming here now! Along with the priestess and her Joyous commune.” 

“What?!” Basira jumped out of her seat, Martin, and Jon following suit. 

“Didn’t you want to get rid of Jonah?” she asked, “Well, here’s the perfect chance?"She pushed back her chair and stood, "Well, this has been a _fun_ chat. Too-da-loo, darlings! Try not to get killed!” 

And with that, she walked out of the office, presumably to escape the chaos that would begin to unfold. A trail of webs and tiny black spiders followed in her wake like a bridal dress train, giving her a wide berth from the archival assistants.

“Shit shit shit _shit_ ,” Jon paced the room, the eyes swarming around him like agitated bees, “alright, let’s get the heck out of this place-” 

“No,” 

Jon stopped to stare at Basira. She attempted to meet his gaze, but it was really hard since she only had two eyes, “ _No_? You hear Annabelle. Jonah could be here at any minute, and he’s willing to-" he stumbled over the words, “he’s...willing to kill anyone who could stop him.” 

“But we need to stop this guy,” Basira argued, “we can’t keep running away, Jon. If we leave him alive, he’s bound to catch up with us and try again.” 

“I...” Jon stopped pacing and instead put his head in his hands, “No...no you’re right. You’re right,” he sounded so defeated, it hurt Martin’s heart, “Can’t keep running away...Damn.” he took a deep breath, “Basira, do you still have the knife?” 

“I, uh...yes.” 

“Good,” Jon nodded, hands shaking as he walked up to her. His movements were jerky but determined 

“Blind me.” 

“ _WHAT?”_ they both cried out. 

“N-no – _Jon, no_!” Martin cried out, “BASIRA DON’T.” 

“It’s the only way, Martin. Don’t you see?” 

“But - no – _no –_ there _has_ to be a better way!” this was ridiculous. Absolutely fucking ridiculous. Jon was out of his fucking mind. 

Plus, Martin thought, he’s already so connected to The Eye. It wasn’t like Melanie, where she just signed a contract. He was The _Head Archivist_. How would that affect him, to have that connection severed? 

Jon took Martin’s hands in his, rubbing a thumb over the knuckles, “Please, Martin. I can’t let the world end because of me. I... can’t let anyone else get hurt.” 

“Bullshit! You _mutilating_ yourself won’t solve anything!” the shard of hurt in Martin's heart twisted deeper and deeper as Jon smiled weakly. He clutched Jon’s hands to his chest, “Basira! Basira, come on. You can’t actually believe this, _right_?” 

“...” 

“BASIRA!” he yelled. 

She sighed, “Martin’s right, Jon. Even if we did blind you, Jonah would find another archivist. And that could be anyone from one of the archival staff or just another stranger off the block that’s had an encounter with one of The Entities. We need to stop Jonah altogether,” 

Martin gestured exaggeratedly to Basira, “See! Please tell me you _see_ her point and that all those eyes aren’t for nothing,” 

Jon fidgeted, “I... suppose that makes sense.” 

Martin sighed with relief, “I love you, Jon. But you’re a real dumbass, sometimes.” 

“I - Mmmf,” Jon’s indignant reply was muffled into Martin’s chest. The pain in Martin’s heart eased as Jon’s stick-like arms wrapped around his back. 

His dark hair tickled Martin’s nose and he huffed, “Come on, you silly man. Let’s go kill our boss.” 

“How?” Jon asked, pulling back. His expression looked so troubled. So _human_. 

“We’ll find a way,” Martin promised, cupping his cheek and smiling when Jon leaned into the touch. 

“Sorry to interrupt you two,” Basira said, peeking out the door to the office, “but I think I hear the main door unlocking.”

Jon stepped out of the embrace, still holding Martin's hand. Static filled the room as he confirmed what they all knew.

" _ **He's here."**_


	5. Lending A Very Long Helping Hand

“Jon... I _Know_ you’re here” 

Jonah seemed to be taking his time, shiny shoes clapping against the cold marble floor of the church. He peeked into every room, hooking a finger on each door and pushing it aside. But he Knew where they were, they all knew it. He was just enjoying the hunt. 

“What do we do?!” Martin whispered urgently. They had retreated back to the big auditorium, surrounded by chunks of broken glass. Centipedes dodged in and out of the floor and the pews while Martin stared at the slightly open doors, where Jonah neared closer and closer. 

“You can’t hide forever,” Jonah Magnus’s voice said, echoing even from this far away. 

Another smooth voice, feminine, “Are you sure they-” 

“Yes, they’re here,” 

“And our ritual? Our god?’ 

“...It shall all go according to plan.” 

Static washed over them, “ _ **That’s the preacher,**_ ” Jon said. 

“Great! Another person who wants the world to end!” Martin sat down on the floor, unwilling to sit on the rotting pews. Basira and Martin had been rapid-firing plans, all of which were shot down by Jon with an ounce of Knowing prowess, or by Basira with her common sense.

There was nothing they could do here on their own. 

“ _Awww_ , it seems like you all need a _hand!_ ” 

They all startled. “Helen!” Martin exclaimed, looking relieved. 

She hung out the side of a door that strangely wasn’t yellow. It was instead old and gnarled brown oak wood. One freakishly long hand curled around the doorframe while the other extended out as if she were offering to dance. 

“Hello!” the nails clacked against the wood, acrylic picked off in chunks, “It seemed like you were in dire need of a _door_?” 

Jon leered at her suspiciously, a few more eyes popping out behind him, “Why are you here, Helen? And why is that door different?” 

She laughed one of her strange laughs that vibrated in everyone’s mind like a headache, “Oh, Archivist! So many _questions._ So much _distrust_. Just like you! If you must know, Annabelle warned me about what had happened, and I just _had_ to come help my friends in need.” She curled her hand into a thumbs up, fingers rolling up in a spiral shape. Her hands sounded like they were full of shards of glass, and looked like it too, “you can count on me!” 

“We don’t need your-” 

“ _Jon_ ,” Jonah’s voice was much closer now. Jon could practically see the smug smile on his face as he waited outside the door. 

Basira sized up Helen, who loomed over her, “Where does the door go?” 

“To a place this church calls ‘heaven’,” Helen purred, “but most might refer closer to a special form of Hell.” 

Basira raised a brow, “Pardon?” 

“It leads to a deserted desert, where time shifts and speeds up to warp the edges of the mind. A week there would barely even come close to an hour here. And there is no escape,” Helen laughed, throwing her head back and unhinging her jaw, “you just keep going round and round the mountain in the center. The entire dimension is rather shaped like a bowl. Or, a pit of loose sand.” She curled her wild hair behind her ear, the strands sticking up as if caught in static.

Jon grimaced, “Doesn’t sound lovely,” 

The doors burst open. Jonah walked in, everything about him prim and sharp and dangerous. A woman walked behind him, a big floppy yellow hat covering her face. And behind them was a mob, cutting off any hopes of escape. 

Jonah threw open his arms, “Jon! What a surprise!” 

“ _Magnus”_

"My church!" the preacher screeched, hand covering her mouth as she took in the significant damage to her treasured home of worship.

"Er," Martin said, "Sorry?"

The mob mumbled angrily, surging forward until Jonah glanced back, pushing them back into their semi-organized clump.

His hungry gaze traveled over the eyes that had appeared behind Jon in awe, reflecting their green glow. “Beautiful; you’ve grown more powerful than I could have hoped for. _Very_ good _._ ” 

“I’m not doing your ritual,” Jon said, his teeth gritted hard enough to break. 

The smug smile did not fall off Jonah’s face, “Fine, if you wish. I just wanted to talk, Jon, really.” 

He whispered to the mob behind him, nodding to Basira and Martin. Jon made to talk but he stuttered and stopped as they unholstered small handguns and trained them on the two archival staff, advancing closer until they could hold the staff in a headlock. Suddenly the air seemed stiller, uncooperative in getting into his lungs. 

“Wait-”

Jonah cocked his head, wolf’s grin growing as he stalked forward, “Oh? I thought you didn’t want to do talk this out?” 

Jon could only watch helplessly as Jonah stalked forward, still smiling. The crowd cheered but it was lost to his ears. Basira looked downright murderous, squirming in the tough grasp of the man. Martin, though... 

Martin closed his eyes at the feeling of cold metal against his forehead, letting out a sharp breath before looking Jon straight in the eye and shaking his head, “Don’t do it, Jon,” 

Jon felt like crying, the decision weighing down on him. 

“Well?” Jonah stalked closer. 

Jon opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again “I...”

His throat grew parched as Martin and Basira’s lives weighed in his choice. But as Jonah starred him down, his gaze pressing and needle sharp, he looked down to the ground at the glass at their feet. He saw Helen, towering behind him, a shadowy and lithe being with hands that looked like knives. He noted Jonah's eyes kept flickering upward and smirking at Helen like he was reading a book he knew the ending to. he was banking on Jon's distrust and stubbornness to blind him to the third choice.

So Jon, with some deliberation and a quick glance at Martin sweating in the grasp of the gun holders, made his choice.

“Helen?” 

Helen looked delighted as she snatched the two men with the guns by their collars. Basira and Martin sighed in relief as the cold metal left their foreheads. The men flailed shooting wildly and hitting Helen more than a few times. But she only grimaced when the bullets sank into her flesh, a feral grin on her face as she opened another yellow door and tossed them in. 

Jonah clearly had been caught off guard, but desperately tried to recall his smug demeanor. He coughed, “Never mind them! I'm sure there are plenty more – wh – What are you _doing?!”_

The mob was now running and screaming, lunging for the exit of the church as doors appeared around them, hanging in the air, on the ceiling, stuck on the walls. Jon bet that more than a few of them would run into to wrong entranced, finding themselves in endless and twisting corridors. Only the preacher was left, her legs wobbling like cooked pasta as she gaped and pointed at Helen. 

“This is ridiculous.” he sneered, but there was a desperation to it, “Preacher!” 

She only gasped like a fish out of water and promptly collapsed onto the stairs, fainting out of fear from the hulking figure of The Spiral. 

“Mmmm,” Helen smiled, plucking Jonah Magnus by the lapels and covering his eyes with her jagged fingers, “No more people to put in front of the bullet. Silly Jonah!” 

Jonah thrashed and yelled, getting more and more distressed by the minute. Martin and Basira in grim satisfaction as Helen kicked open the oaken door with her foot, grasping Jonah in a tighter grip when he kicked against her arms. But Jon? Jon could barely believe what he was seeing. Was this the end? Were they finally going to be free from Jonah’s grasp? It seemed too good to be true. 

“Wait!” Jonah yelled, grasping at the edges of the door. Now that it was fully open, Jon could clearly see the blinding brightness of the desert, though he couldn’t find any sun or source of light. Just endless sand wastes and a giant mountain in the middle. If Jon squinted and tried to Know, he could just barely make out the little house at the base of the mountain, and a lighthouse that was eerily reminiscent of the eye window of the church. And if he pressed just more at the edges of his vast knowledge, he could make out a red light, blinking like an eye at the top of the tooth-shaped mountain. 

Helen turned back for a second, pouting, “Pity I can’t contain him in my hallways. But, that would be much too dangerous. Plus! I have all those _delicious_ new victims anyway.” 

She tossed him into the sand uneventfully, and reach for the knob to close it.

Before she did, though, Jonah quickly picked himself off the sand, grinning madly at Basira. 

“I know!” he yelled with mad glee, “I Know where Daisy is!” 

The door squeaked on its hinges as Helen went to shut it- 

“Wait.” 

“Basira! No-” 

“Basira don’t, it’s a trap-” 

“I know, I know.” she interrupted, taking out her knife and laying a hand on the door, “Jon. Ask him.” 

Jon gingerly crept to the door, keeping a hand on his own weapon, " ** _Where is_** _ **she?**_ "

Magnus laughed madly, kicking up sand as he scrambled up and stood. 

“She’s _here_. She’s hunting these desert wastes _,”_

Basira quickly shut the door, taking in deep and measured breaths as Jonah’s laughter and words echoed in her mind. 

_She’s here. She’s here. She’s here. She’s here._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helen and Annabelle just chill with the surviving avatars, drinking tea and spiders and trading Jonmartin headcannons.


	6. A Very Bad Car Ride

“Basira-” 

“ _Shut up._ " 

Basira’s forehead rested on the dry gnarled wood of the door, one hand clutching the doorknob tightly, as if it might vanish if she let go.

“OOOooooOOO” Helen put a hand to her mouth, eyebrows rising until they disappeared behind her curls, “Plot twist! My oh _my_! Whatever shall you do?” 

“Oh, hush,” Martin snapped, startling everyone, “You didn’t even try to jump in to help us when Jonah appeared until Jon asked!” 

“Aww, but I just wanted to see it all play out! Like a storybook in real-time. Plus, I didn't want to upset anything Anabelle was planning.” She grinned, her teeth glinting in the faint light of the moon. The wind howled through the church's broken windows, making Jon shiver. 

“We’re going to get her back, Basira,” Jon said, a quiet determination to his words. He'd saved her once, he can save her again, “We will.” 

“How?” Basira growled out, eerily reminiscent of her partner. 

“We need a plan,” the eyes blinked open behind him, “Maybe we can knock Jonah unconscious? Trap him somewhere in the desert while we look for Daisy.” 

“Yeah, but how do we knock him out?” Martin walked over and picked up his axe, “I mean, I have this. But it might just kill him,” 

“And we don’t want that, or else everyone dies. And even if we don’t kill him, he might overpower us with The Eye or something." Jon shook his head, "No doubt he has some backup plan... – no, it’s too risky.” he concluded. He sighed, pressing a hand to his forehead and kicking away a centipede that crawled too close, “Okay, okay. Hm... How about we enter from somewhere else? Try to avoid him? Helen, are there any other doors like this one?” 

“Oh, sure! They’re all in Night Vale, though.” 

“Can you get them over here?” 

Helen sat on the backrest of the pew, scratching her chin with her jutting fingertips, “Not sure, that door was quite hard to wrestle over here in the first place.” she splayed her hands open, “Sorry, _Archivist_!” she sounded amused and decidedly not sorry. 

“Right.” he scrubbed a hand over his worried face, and Martin was hit with how young he really was. Sure, he had a few grey strands, but those were only from the considerable amounts of stress he’d been put under with being – well, being The Archivist. Or The _Archive_ , as Jonah put it. The title still made Martin burn with a protective fire. It was a shame he couldn’t just let the axe slip in his hand and, oops! Dead Magnus.

He wanted that Scottish cabin back. Those nights where they tentatively reach over to each other in the bed. Those mornings when they met eyes and laughed with relief and making it despite everything. Those breakfasts where Jon could try to make Martin tea for once, and maybe apologize for the amount of times he was a complete arse. Those afternoons where Jon was convinced to eat real food, even though he didn't need it, not anymore. Those evenings where Martin could actually see himself in the mirror, his image not shrouded in fog. The days they spent wandering the town and petting cows and the nights they spent crying or squinting in the dark for a danger that the couldn't see or screaming from the realm of dreams.

Those few weeks when they were just figuring out their relationship. He wished they'd have gotten more time before running over the archives on a wild goose chase for Jonah's plans in the statements he left behind.

Martin promised himself that they were going to get that semi-happy ending. And so was Basira, and Daisy, and Georgie, and Melanie, and Jon most of all.

Martin realized Jon was still talking, “So, we’ll just travel to Night Vale, find a door, look for Daisy, and convince her to come back with us?” 

There was a long pause before Basira spoke, “Yeah...Yeah, okay.” 

She slowly unclamped her grip on the doorknob, stepping back from the wood surface. 

The door vanished, rippling and folding into itself until it wasn’t there anymore. 

Jonah was trapped, for now.

“Oh, you guys are going to _love_ Night Vale! Say hi to Erika for me,” Helen clasped her hands together, laughter echoing through the church long after she left through one of their doors. 

They started walking out of the church, going out the front this time. Jon frowned at the centipede handles before pushing them open. 

Once in the car, Jon asked to drive. 

“I actually know a bit about Night Vale.” Jon explained as they glided along the relatively quiet streets, “Well, not _Know_ know. I – did I tell you guys about Georgie's podcast?” 

~ 

The doorbell was buzzing. 

Melanie paused, setting her fork down from the take out she was eating, “Hey, babe, could you...?” 

Melanie could hear from the keyboard clicks that Georgie was busy going over the audio for her podcast. She was actually considering expanding and hiring an official team to put together the episodes for her after the advertisement funds from this month came in. Melanie could still remember her excited expression as she explained the whole process of outsourcing. And how maybe they could get one of those podcast nominations. And maybe they could produce a joke investigation for April fools on the Magnus Archives and her ex.

They laughed over that one for a while, and it felt like pulling out a shard of glass from an old wound she hadn't realized was there. It hurt, but it also felt _really_ good. 

When she had told that to Georgie while they were laying in bed, Georgie had smiled. She said that that was a good thing.

The doorbell rang again, getting Georgie’s attention this time. She paused before quickly getting to her feet, “Who the hell would come a quarter to 12? I swear to God if it’s Jon asking us for another-” Melanie heard the creak of the door, “GODAMNIT JON, ITS LIKE MIDNIGHT-” 

“Yes, yes, I know, I’m sorry. But, we won’t be taking up too much of your time.” 

Melanie slid off the chair, making her way closer to the voices with a hand on the wall. She was pretty used to the layout of Georgie’s, but the support grounded her while she thought of reasons why Jon would have had to come back. 

“Jon I – HOLY SHIT – Jon, why does Martin have an axe?!” 

“Well, you see... We had to break a few windows?” 

Melanie stopped by Georgie’s side, leaning into her warmth, “Hey, Jon.” 

“Melanie,” Jon said breathlessly, “Good to see you. How’s the...how’s it been?” 

“Good, it's been good. What about you guys? What’s with the axe?” 

Georgie tensed next to her, “Look, we’re not helping you with any grand supernatural scheme, okay? So, if this is about the fears, or whatever-” 

A new voice. Basira’s, “Look, we just need any info you have on appearing doors and Night Vale. It’s important,” 

“I...” 

“Sure.” 

“Melanie!” 

Melanie crossed her arms, “We're not directly going to help them on...whatever thing they’ve planned up. We're just giving them info,” 

“...Fine,” she heard the door creak open wider, as well as Jon’s sigh of relief, “Come in.” 

They all waited in the living room while Georgie dug up the old files on her computer. Melanie pet The Admiral and finished her take out as Jon and Martin explained the situation, everything from the faux statement to the door that Helen had brought. Basira stayed quiet, though.

“Alright, here you go.” they gathered around the table, “Episode 71, The Mysterious Town of Chihuahuan Desert. Says that people would see mirages of really specific things, most commonly wooden doors and a town in the distance that was dubbed ‘Night Vale’. Though the hallucinations could range from anything to a five-headed dragon to a mountain in the distance.” 

“Did the mountain have a lighthouse on it?” Jon asked. 

“What?” 

“N - nothing,” he coughed, “Carry on.” 

Melanie could practically hear her roll her eyes, “There was this one anonymous guy that allegedly worked at a radio station in Night Vale. He’s said to have had disappeared off the radar for years, no social media activity or anything, but said he was only gone for months at most. His mother didn’t recognize him at all, and he was really hazy when questioned on the details about where he'd been, claiming he didn't remember anything about the last few years except his job. Eventually, he disappeared again, claiming he was pulled by some force and had to head somewhere. His last whereabouts were Arizona, and after that? Nothing.” 

There was a big pause. 

“...Damn,” Martin shuffled in his seat, “guess I see why Helen would like it, it sounds real bloody weird.” 

“Anything else?” Jon pressed. 

“There was this one scientist named Nilanjana Sikdar who allegedly works in Night Vale.” Georgie tapped the down key a few times, “She travels to her parents outside the town but doesn’t do it often because “it’s hard to get out of the town, due to the disruptions in physical space and reality in Night Vale. Also, time is really weird there, too.”. She only describes the town as “really odd”, and describes some of her science experiments as having to do with some sort of “Desert Otherworld”-” 

“That’s it.” Jon said suddenly 

“What?” 

Static filled the room, “ **_That’s where the doors go_ **...ah! Oh, wow, um...” 

“Jon?” Martin's voice was laced with worry. 

“No, it – it's okay. I’m fine, I just.” Jon sucked in a deep breath and the static faded, “It’s weird... trying to know things about...that place in particular. Maybe it’s The Spiral’s domain? No, doesn’t seem right...” 

“So, this place _is_ real?” 

“Yes, Georgie, it seems so.” 

“Hmm,” Georgie sounded smug. “Right, well, I’ll send this to you. Good luck, I guess.” 

“Right, thank you, Georgie.” the chairs scraped across the ground, “Take care, Melanie. Let’s try to find Mrs. Skidar, then.” 

Melanie walked them to the door. She heard their footsteps get farther away. Her hand closed on the knob, but she didn’t swing it closed. 

Her therapist had talked a lot about forgiveness, how it was key to recovery. She had already managed to forgive herself for a lot of the anger that spilled out during The Slaughter's influencing, but she hadn’t really had the chance to talk to Jon... 

“Hey, Jon!” 

The footsteps stopped, then started again until she knew he was a few steps away from her. 

“Yeah?” 

“I... I blamed you a lot, for the whole situation at The Archives. And I’m still upset about the...impromptu surgery,” 

“Ah...” 

“But,” she continued, adjusting her glasses, “A lot of that wasn’t your fault. And I knew the whole bullet removal was probably for the best, no matter how traumatizing it was.” 

“ _Ah,_ " he still sounded guilty, “I’m sor-” 

“But I forgive you, for that. And the rest of it? Me signing the papers and blinding myself? That wasn’t your fault. So, if I hear you trying to apologize for any of that, I’ll stab you with another scalpel. Got it?” 

“I - yes. I think so.” he sounded faintly amused this time, “Thank you, Melanie.” 

Her lips quirked upward, “Don’t die.” 

The door clicked behind her. 

~ 

“Okay, but – like – isn’t this desert in the middle of the states?” Martin asked, scrolling through his phone for pictures of the Chihuahuan desert. 

“Yes,” Jon said, “I guess we’ll have to go to the airport?” 

“What about when we get to the desert?” Basira finally said. Her voice was low, carefully monotone, “How do we find the town?” 

“Um - well, I could try to Know... Hold on,” Martin could see a glowing eye open to peek at him through the rear-view mirror while Jon focused on Knowing. He waved at it. It blinked. The static rose slowly...

Then the static overflowed. 

Martin felt stuck to his seat, the breath knocked out of him by the sheer weight of the static and being Known. It felt like his being was being peeled away, protections stripped back like flower petals to reveal the soft unarmored belly underneath. He wanted to hide. To dig into the seats. To run from the piercing gaze of The Beholder. He looked at Jon in the front seat, and he finally understood what that woman who complained to him meant by ‘ _all eyes’_. 

Basira squirmed in her seat, “Jon, what the fuck!?” she sounded angry, but Martin could pick out the fear by how wide her eyes were. 

If Jon could hear her, he didn’t acknowledge her words. Instead, he held the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip and pressed his foot against the accelerator until it reached the floor. Martin and Basira were thrown backward as Jon sped off into the night. 

“Jon! Christ – Jon, stop! Jon!? Can you hear us?” 

“JONATHAN SIMS, I SWEAR IF YOU DON’T STOP THIS CAR-” 

“ **_I Know the way there._ **" His voice was deep and distorted. Martin felt his heart sink to his shoes. He’d already lost Jon to The Eye two times today. 

They turned the corner, nearly crashing into a truck calmly driving along the street. Martin could hear it honking behind them, the driver shouting angrily. 

“Sorry!” Martin could barely hear himself over the static. “Jon! Jon, what do you mean you _Know_ the way? To Night Vale?” were they going to _drive_ to the states? Martin could picture Basira’s little car, driving along the bottom of the ocean with bubbles coming out, and gulped fearfully like he was in a cartoon, “Jon, where are we going?!” 

Jon’s response was emotionless, “ **_Where the sun is hot, the moon is beautiful and mysterious lights pass overhead while we all pretend to sleep._ **” 

“THAT DOESN’T ANSWER MY QUESTION, JON!” Martin went even paler when he saw the ‘dead-end’ sign ahead. They were on a suburban stretch of road, the type that had neatly cut lawns and little cabin-like houses and roads that ended in a circle of houses that someone could easily crash into while going this speed.

Basira tried to lunge towards Jon, but her seatbelt was stuck fast, and the buckle was jammed. Her hands weakly brushed against his chest and clawed at the seat belt as she strained forward.

Martin grabbed for the front seat, heaving himself forward. The static was deafening, and he struggled against the primal urge to shirk away from the piercing green glow of the eyes

“Sorry, Jon.” he reeled his hand back and slapped him across the cheek. 

Nothing. Jon’s eyes stared ahead, completely captured in whatever he could Know or See in front of him. At that moment, you barely see Jon. Just The Archivist. 

The road was rapidly shortening. Martin could see the quaint little homes become brighter in the headlights. The speedometer was inching steadily closer to 100. 

He wrapped a hand around Jon’s shoulders and hugged tightly. The position was awkward, because of all of Jon’s eyes, and the velocity of the car, and the fact that he sat directly behind Jon and had his stomach pressed against the front car seat. But he didn’t care, he just held on and closed his eyes and held his breath as they barreled towards the brick walls of a small house, Basira's scream piercing through the static and ringing through his ears.

 _At least he wouldn’t die in the belly of some monster..._

_..._

_..._

...The wall Martin was expecting never came. Neither did the darkness of death. 

Instead, he could hear the rumbling of car tires over an uneven road. He could see brightness behind his eyes. The sudden heat hit him like a wave. 

Martin opened his eyes. He let go of Jon carefully, watching his unconscious, now only two-eyed body slump to the side in the unexpected light. Basira finally could unbuckle her seatbelt. As she did, a small spider crawled up the seat belt, disappeared into a crack in the car. Neither of them made any moves to apprehend it. Instead, they stepped out of the car, which had now fully stopped. 

The car sat on a long and dusty stretch of road, with cracks in the dark asphalt. And beyond that, in the distance, the road snaked its way into a town. And beyond that, a desert wasteland full of dry shrubbery and cactuses. And beyond that, mountains. And beyond that, a blue and cloudless sky, with a hot sun that beat down on them mercilessly. Martin could feel sweat begin to fall down his neck. 

Martin looked to the big billboard at the side of the road. It was old, rusty. The headlights were cracked and the paint job was ancient, but the beautifully calligraphed words were still completely legible. 

Welcome to Night Vale 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What The Girlfriends! Making an appearance!
> 
> Oh also Jon gets possesed I guess.
> 
> (Quote directly taken from the first episode of WTNV, Pilot)


	7. Deus Ex Machina

Basira acted first. She stormed towards her car, ripping the seat belt off Jon and slapping him awake before Martin could even attempt to snap out of his own enthrallment with the mysterious town to stop her. 

“Hkk-” Jon put a hand to his cheek, blinking rapidly, “wh - what?” he finally opened his eyes long enough to spot the billboard, and the town sprawled out behind it, “...Oh god,” 

“Your knife,” Basira demanded. 

“What?” 

“Your knife. I’m not having you get possessed by that weird Eldritch god of yours again while armed,” 

Jon looked to Martin, who remained silent. She did have a point. Jon seemed to recognize this. 

“Fair enough,” 

The resignment left in his words left a sour taste in everyone's mouth. 

“And I’ll be driving now,” Basira declared. 

Jon stayed in the back of the car, with Martin, who refused to let Jon be by himself right now. The car ride had been...scary. Concerning. Especially for Jon. And Martin knew Jon well, by now. He knew how much Jon would be mentally kicking himself, and he refused to let the person he loved hurt himself like this in silence and isolation. He rubbed a hand against the bumpy scorched flesh of Jon’s hand and felt the grip tighten desperately. Like a man grasping a lifesaver while the sea overwhelmed him in its turmoil and hungry waves.

But, if Martin was being honest, he wasn’t sitting in the back just to comfort Jon. It was also for practical purposes. He wanted to make sure he could reach Jon in case something like that happened again. This wasn’t being caught up in a statement, anymore. This was full-on control The Beholder was taking Jon’s own limbs and body, imprisoning him to watch his own dreadful actions from the prison of his own body. Almost like a puppeteer... 

“Do you think it was The Web?” Martin said. 

Jon scoffed, “The Web had nothing to do with this, Martin. That was all... _me_.” he sounded sickened with himself. 

“Well,” he frowned, “No, it wasn’t. You were just responding to a question we asked you.” 

“I still-” 

“Jon, you didn’t _do that._ You didn’t _want to_ speed in the car, right?” 

“Martin, it's more complicated-” Jon cut himself off, massaging his temples as they passed the first few houses into Night Vale, “Ah...wow...okay.” 

Basira’s gaze was almost as cutting as the Beholders in the rearview mirror, “What?” 

“Night Vale” Jon took an unsteady breath, holding onto Martin’s arm tightly. He looked like he was about to throw up, “Is _chock-full_ of avatars. A – and statements – I, er , I mean people _with_ statements. And. ..gods its-” he gasped for breath, “It’s bad, here. This place was  **_not meant to be here this long.”_ **

“Jon?” 

“Ple-” he sucked in another harsh breath. It sounded like the wind against the broken shards of colorful and terrifying glass in a church, “Please. Don’t. Ask me any more questions. I’m afraid I might not be able to control myself,” his laugh was more air and bitterness than humor.” 

Martin pulled Jon closer, resting Jon’s head against his shoulder as they both looked out the window at the strange new town they had found themselves in. 

A few people were walking the streets. Their eyes would practically pop out of their sockets as they caught sight of their car, pointing and yelling something. Those with children would hold them close and runoff, the toddlers jabbing at the car with clumsy fingers and mimicking their parent’s cries.

“Well,” Martin said after a man flat out dropped their groceries in the middle of the street to run screaming from their car, “not a very _welcoming_ community, is it?” 

“Yeah,” Basira didn’t smile, “but we’ll be out of their hair as soon as we find where this Nilanjana is.” 

And that’s when they heard police sirens. 

The vans and police cars came out of nowhere, tires screeching against the tarmac and clipping the sidewalk in their urgency. One even knocked down a mailbox in its haste to get to them. Martin peaked at the speedometer and noted that they were going about 10 miles per hour. 

About a dozen vehicles surrounded their little car, all of them dark purple and emblazoned with a big star on their side. “Sherrif’s Secret Police” was emblazoned in script lettering on the doors that officers jumped out of, weapons in hand already. One officer, completely covered in black cloth except for their eyes, peeked out of the roof and hollered into a megaphone.

Basira lifted her foot off the accelerator completely, “What the fu-” 

“GET OUT OF THE VEHICLE, INTERLOPERS!!” The person with the megaphone cried. 

They decided to comply, getting out with their hands up and warily eyeing the massive and frankly unnecessary guns. 

The microphone feedback screeched through the air, “DROP YOUR WEAPONS, INTERLOPPERS!!” 

_Christ_ , Martin thought when he heard helicopter blades chopping through the air. The noise was deafening along with sirens assaulting them from all angles. 

Their weapons dropped to the floor. “You still haven’t told us why you’re arresting us!!” Basira shouted over the noise. 

“QUIET, INTERLOPER!” 

Officers marched over to them, batons swinging threateningly by their sides. Martin winced when they pressed him to the side of the car, handcuffs clicking ominously. 

“Is this _really_ necessary?”

“Sorry, interloper.” said the officer from behind him, “Protocol.” 

“ _THIS_ is _PROTOCOL_?!” 

The officer mumbled something about the right to remain silent, and the unforgiving light of the sun was the last thing Martin saw for a while aside from the inside of the burlap sack. 

“ _Really?!_ This is _ridiculous!”_ his voice was muffled under the sack. 

He was shoved into the car seats of what he assumed was the officer’s car, Jon and Basira opposite sides of him, lurching blindly as the officer sped away. It was a sweaty humid heat underneath the burlap, the cloth itching at his face. Basira was still shouting at the officer to explain himself, but Martin heard the sliding of plastic against plastic – a sneeze guard, probably. They lurched forward as the car started up, sirens still blaring faintly behind and in front of them from what Martin assumed were escorts. 

“Where do you suppose we’re going?” he asked bleakly. 

“ **_ The abandoned mineshaft, to be held for questioning.” _ ** Jon gasped like he’d been punched in the gut, “A - ah. Jeez...that’s-” 

“Oh - shit - sorry-” Martin stammered out. 

“No, it’s -it's okay.” Martin could hear Jon’s heavy breaths as he collected himself, “Well, that’s concerning.” 

“Yeah,” Basira kicked at the front seat, “No shit,” 

They swayed in silence as the car drove onto a rockier road. The abandoned mineshaft did _not_ sound good at _all_ . And no one was going to save them. And they were stuck in a place where Jon trying to use his powers would end up with him possessed by The Eye of The Web or something. And they had no idea how to get back to London because they had no idea where this place was in space or time.

“Are we going to die here?” he whispered. The same question he'd been asking himself constantly since his very first encounter With jane Prentiss.

“...I don’t know, Martin.” Jon admitted, “But we’ve certainly survived worse odds before,” 

They leaned against each other, Basira joining in after a while, and Martin hoped they could beat the odds once again. 

The car jerked to a sudden stop, almost throwing them out of their seats. Martin thought he could hear voices outside. The car door beside Basira clicked and slid open, the voices becoming clearer. 

“Really?” the officer asked drily, pulling them out of the car to stand on dust ground. 

“Please! The science community would be eternally grateful, as _well_ as the journalist community!” this voice was deep, rich, and beautiful with years of practice evident in the fluent words. Like a finely aged wine, Martin thought. 

The burlap sacks came off their heads. He squinted at the bright sun, spotting the town far away in the distance already. They were standing in a wasteland of sand and shrubbery and cactuses that seemed to be the only source of light around. The officer who had handcuffed him was arguing to a tall man with a microphone in his pocket, owner of the deep voice. Martin squinted, spotting an eye near the man’s neck that winked at Martin when it spotted his stare. 

“I think he’s an eye avatar!” Martin whispered hurriedly, pointing to the man as well as he could with his hands tied behind his back. He heard Jon’s sharp intake of breath from behind him, his shuffling of feet as he dared to get closer while the officer was preoccupied. 

“Shh! I’m listening,” Basira shout whispered. The officer and the microphone man were still arguing. 

The officer touched his baton, but his eyes flickered uncertainly between his captives and the man “But it goes against our protocol. All interlopers are to report for questioning on their motives-” 

“Yes yes yes _fine_!” the man sputtered, “But Carlos-” he gestured to a car that had stopped right in front of the officer’s escorting cars “-was also an interloper, and we didn’t interrogate him unless suspicious activity and writing utensil use was detected. Please,” he set a hand on the officer's shoulder, who looked at the point of contact uncomfortably. The eyes around the tall man opened up like flowers, a neon purple glow that was familiar and at the same time unfamiliar to Martin. The static crept up around the back of Martin’s ears, a different pitch than Jons.

“Please,” the man repeated, “do it for science. Do it for the sake of the scientific community,” 

“Ahhh. Uhhh. Ummm.” the officer squirmed backward, poking the tall man away with his baton, “Fine. Take them! Guys, we’re letting them go.” 

The officers from the surrounding escort cars peeked out at their roofs, looking vaguely disappointed more than anything. It reminded Martin of a bunch of school children who'd just been told they can’t get a shiny toy they had spotted in the window displays.

“Do we _have_ to let them go?” one whined. 

“Yes! It’s for the sake of science,” the man turned back to the first officer, “if you will?” 

Martin was relieved when the cuffs finally came off. “Go on, go on” the officer mumbled, waving them off. 

“ **_ Who are you?” _ ** Jon asked immediately, rubbing his wrists. 

The man smiled serenely, green and purple eyes locked in competition as he shook Jon’s hand “Cecil Palmer, community radio host of this lovely town. The Voice of Night Vale. _And you?_ ” 

“Jonathan Sims, the Archivist.” Jon’s answer was immediate, eyebrows shooting downwards as he realized what had happened, “... of the Magnus Institute.” 

The silence was thick as molasses, Jon scowling while Cecil seemed pleasantly calm. 

Basira put a hand to her forehead, swearing colorfully, “Fuck, there’s _two_ of them?” 

Cecil laughed, throaty and beautifully deep, “Come on, I’ll explain in the car.” 

“Oh, hell no.” she laughed bitterly, “You better tell us why you’re here, or we won’t be going anywhere.” 

He bit his lip, eyeing the now retreating cop cars, “Would you believe me if I said I was trying to help? Because I am! My husband, Carlos – who is a _scientist-”_ he said the word ‘scientist’ reverently “-could help you find what you’re looking for.” 

“Absolutely not-” 

Martin interrupted her, “Does he known Nilanjana?” 

“Yep! We can take you to her as soon as you’d like,” 

Martin swore that Basira could literally smite someone down with the stare she kept throwing at him. But she gritted her teeth, refrained from throttling Martin, and slammed open the car door. Martin and Jon followed her inside, ending up holding hands somehow, though no one remembered when the contact had started. Neither made any effort to let go. 

Inside the car in the driver's seat was the most handsome man Martin had ever had the pleasure to lay eyes upon. 

Not that Martin was attracted to him romantically; Jon had a place in his heart that Martin wasn’t willing to share with another person. Plus, he was pretty sure this was Cecil’s husband, Carlos, judging by the scientist's lab coat he wore. 

But this did not negate the fact that Carlos was beautiful, with brown skin clear from any blemish or mark and beautiful wavy hair that cascaded all the way down to his shoulders. His hesitant smile showed off an array of even teeth that looked like they were chiseled from smooth marble.

“Hey, guys.” Carlos said as Cecil dropped into the shotgun seat, “Welcome to Night Vale, I guess.” 

“Right, I want answers. What the hell is up with this place?” Baisra snapped, her patience as thin and fragile as paper. Martin stifled a yawn. Even Jon, insomniac extraordinaire, struggled to stay upright. They hadn’t had a moment of rest since before Rosita’s statement, running and fighting and breaking things all night. Or... morning? Martin squinted at the sun. It seemed time worked a little differently in Night Vale. 

Carlos winced while driving, “Yeah, it's pretty bad if you're not used to it. It’s...well, it’s weird here.” he rushed to add on before any of them could interject, “I-I mean it’s... the fabric of reality is kinda warped here? And time. Time is warped. Though time has always been weird.” 

“Well, what do you mean, weird?” Jon asked. 

Cecil leaned over from the front seat, “There are so many _different_ _versions_ of Night Vale, and they all converge into one big mess! Booosh!” he scrunched his hands together, “Like clumsily mixing paints that don't belong together. Which makes every possible thing exist at once, which is very bad if you appreciate logic and basic laws of reality. It's also why it’s so hard to _know_ or _understand_ things here! It’s already hard enough to Know about one world, but infinite worlds is pre-tty hard on the old brain. Plus, some things should be left unknown.” he winked. 

“How did you know-” Jon’s mouth shut with an audible click, “Ah...I see,” 

Cecil did jazz hands, grinning from ear to ear, “Avatar buddies~” 

“Right,” Jon mumbled sleepily, leaning into Martin’s shoulder, “right...” 

“Why are you helping us?” Martin asked, holding Jon closer. Cecil made a high-pitched squeal, watching them like one might watch a cute pack of puppies first opening their innocent eyes to the world. 

“Because you! Two! Are! _Adorable_ !” Cecil shrieked, fumbling with the microphone in his pocket. The wire seemed to just disappear into his pocket, “Oh. My. _Gosh_ . I _need_ to interview you guys for m y radio station _-_ " 

Carlos stopped Cecil’s arm gently, “Also, we heard that you were going to investigate the Desert Otherworld, and that place is dangerous. Believe me, I’ve gotten stuck there for a while.” 

“You know where the entrance is?” Martin asked, glancing at Basira. But she was somewhere else, too dazed and tired by today's activities to fully comprehend the words. 

“Yes.” Carlos confirmed, turning gently on the car wheel, “I and Nilanjana have both had experience with the Desert Otherworld and have talked to many of its victims. We can lead you through there. I wouldn't want anyone else getting lost in its sandy wastes,” 

“That...that would be nice,” Martin said through a muffled yawn. “Thank you. Our friend is stuck there,” 

Cecil winked, “I Know. That's why we came,” 

“Right....” he couldn’t muster up the energy to be disturbed, slumping in the car seat. 

Jon’s arms snaked around his torso, “Get some rest, Martin. I’ll talk with them, find out some more.” he eyed Cecil suspiciously, who just waved. 

“Alrigh'...mmmm” Martin burrowed into Jon’s side, sleep tugging him into a gentle embrace. He trusted Jon to watch over them while they were with these strangers. These kind and well-intentioned but unnerving strangers. 

He would trust Jon with his life. 

Martin was rocked to sleep by the swaying of the car. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cecil and Carlos save the day!


	8. Promises and Reminders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw for suicidal idealization/talk of suicide (canon typical but still)

Martin woke to Jon’s exasperated voice. 

“So, you have an eldritch beast of darkness as your _boss_? And you don’t, I don’t know, question it at all??” 

Cecil lounged in the front seat, sipping from a fast food cup that left a neon green dash of liquid under his nose, “I mean, station management can be feisty at times. But-” he sipped again and shrugged. 

Jon spotted Martin rubbing his eyes and stretching, “Martin! This town – it – it's – I mean, for fucks sake. I have no idea how this town hasn’t died yet! It’s terrible here!” 

The radio host hummed, looking very offended, “Jeez. It’s not that bad, you’re just not used to it. Stay till tomorrow, at least. Next week is poetry week, and that’s always loads of fun! I mean, the death rate is _only_ 10%, which is a lot less than the average death rate of most community events.” 

Jon waved his hand erratically at the eccentric man, “See?!” 

“Least there’s a poetry week,” Martin smiled as Jon slumped into the seat, putting his head in his hands. “Oh. Where’s Basira and Carlos?” 

“They went to find Nilanjana.” Cecil said, “She wasn’t at the diner, so they ended up walking to the lab nearby.” he shook a greasy fast food bag Martin hadn’t noticed before, “Are you hungry?” 

Martin carefully took the bag and peered inside. There was a partially unwrapped burger inside, but it screamed and vibrated when Martin touched it. He ended up taking out the cup of fries, though; they smelled like ginger and were a bit soggier than he expected, but it looked like the safest thing there. He didn’t even try to inspect the chicken nuggets after he saw the metal shavings leaking from the box they were in. 

“Now, while we wait...” Cecil ducked down, pulling up a box with tons of wires and blinking lights. A grunt escaped him as he balanced the box between the seats and handed both Martin and Jon a microphone, “...let’s do this interview!” 

“Wait what-” 

“No. No, we don’t-” 

Cecil flicked a switch on the box and it hummed to life, “Hello, Night Vale, and welcome to a _very_ special broadcast. I’m sure you’ve all heard of the two newcomers to our humble town and their subsequent arrest by the Sheriff’s Secret Police, but do you really know **who** they are? Aren't you curious about **why** they are here? Don't you have a burning desire to know **how** they managed to survive their arrest? All those questions and more to be answered in today's broadcast! I have with me two of the arrested interlopers, Jonathan Sims and Martin Blackwood, who I will be interviewing in this very segment. INTRODUCE YOURSELVES!” 

Martin fumbled with the mic, “Uh, hello? Why are you guys so against people visiting here?” 

“I’m not doing this-” Jon started to say, putting down the mic, but Cecil interrupted. 

“Now, could you tell the listeners why you’ve come to Night Vale?” the static was brief and faint, but Martin could feel a small tug on his tongue. 

“Well, we’re looking for our friend. H-her name’s Daisy, and she might be in This Desert Otherworld you guys have here. She’s a - um - a tall blonde woman, but we think she might have...turned into something else?” 

“Martin.” Jon snapped. 

“What?’ Martin argued, “Someone could have seen her.” he turned back to the mic, “She’s tall with short-cropped blonde hair and brown eyes, sometimes carrying a gun. Or, if you happen to see... I don’t know, a wolf beast? Is that what Basira described? If you see a giant wolf being or feel like... like something’s chasing you, call us.” 

“You heard him, folks!” Cecil said, “Call into the radio tower if you see anything or anyone matching that description. Now, changing subjects. How did you find your way here? It’s pretty hard to get into Night Vale, you know.” another faint crackle of static. It seemed unintentional, though, because the radio host kept looking at them with such genuine curiosity and wonder that made it hard to believe he had much malicious intent. 

Still, Martin was careful with his words, “Jon guided us here. He – um – has a good sense of direction,” 

“Fascinating.” Cecil grinned, “Now, would I be correct in assuming you two are together?” 

Jon’s scowl deepened, “That’s quite enough-” 

“Yes, actually.” Martin stated primly, “We just started dating,” 

Cecil gasped “How romantic, listeners! Was this ‘love at first sight’? Or was it a much slower brew?” the static rose, pressure building uncomfortably in Martin’s head, “ _Did you two know each other for a while before you decided to act on your feelings?_ ” 

Jon’s shoulders relaxed back down from his ears, “There’s been a lot in the way of our relationship up until now. I think...I think we’ve both felt the same for a while, but it’s been so dangerous and hectic that addressing our feelings all fell by the wayside- _stop doing that_.” 

Martin frowned, crossing his arms and leaning against the door “But your still not fully committed to this, are you?” 

“What?” 

Martin gestured to the seats, both Jon and Martin sat on completely opposite sides, “There’s still something between us, Jon. You’re not – you’re holding yourself back. You kept shooting down all my suggestions and offers to help after you got... _possessed_.” 

“Martin-” 

“And you suddenly wanted to _blind yourself_ hours ago! Which was rash and _wildly_ out of character.” 

“I – look – it’s complicated-” 

“ _Try me._ ”

There was a heavy silence, filled only with the hum of Cecil's box that sounded eerily similar to the tape recorders of the archives.

“....Uh...Listeners, let’s go to The Weather.” Cecil tapped a button on the box lightly, “Right, do you...um - Do you want me to leave the car for a bit, or?” 

Jon scrubbed a hand over his face, ‘Yes, yes. Go.” 

Martin heard the door shut behind him.

“Look, Jon, I’m sorry-” 

“I’m _scared,_ Martin.” Jon interrupted, “I’m scared – of all of this. But mostly, the possessions. I’ve been aware and in control of most of what I was doing when I was feeding on those statement givers. Driven by my own desires? Yes, but I still... _wanted it_... But now? I – this is _completely_ out of my control! I – I can _see_ myself... I could see how scared you all were when I drove that car straight into a _wall_....” he sounded horrified with himself. Slumped against the door and hugging himself, like he was actively keeping himself as far away as possible. 

“I could have **killed you** .” he choked out, “I could have – Martin, it could happen again, and there would be nothing I could do to _stop_.” 

“...God, I’m so sorry Jon.” Martin hugged Jon close, curling around him, “F-for the yelling, and accusations. And all of this situation, really.” 

Jon’s fists shook as they held onto Martin’s shirt, “I know. It’s alright,” 

“It’s not!” Martin said, sounding distraught. 

“...No, it’s not.” a sigh, “But it also isn’t your burden to carry. This situation is out of our control, and frankly? We’ve all had a _very_ stressful day,” Martin shook a little, making a noise that by only the most liberal of estimates could be called a laugh, “and honestly I'm surprised you didn’t crack under the pressure until now.” 

The position they were hugging from grew uncomfortable after a while, but neither was willing to let go. 

“...I love you, no matter what.” Martin said finally, “And once we deal with Jonah and get Daisy back, we will absolutely find a way to get you your control back.” 

“I love you too.” Jon leaned back, taking Martin’s hands in his own, “But I don’t want you to get hurt. So please, you have to promise-” 

“ _No.”_

“Promise me you’ll do whatever it is necessary to defend yourself.” Jon continued, squeezing Martin’s palms and resting his head against their intertwined hands, “Please,” 

“I’m not killing you, Jon.” there was a stubborn determination there, obvious in how Martin held himself and stared Jon straight in the eye, “You can’t ask me to do that.” 

“Fine, yes. But at least – I don’t know? Restrain me? Just –Take the right precautions, If this ever happens again,” 

“...Alright, fine.” Martin conceded, “But only in an emergency, okay?” 

“Thank you.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” he pressed a kiss to Jon’s forehead, and Jon’s lips formed one of his rare smiles. Martin then rolled down the window, “Cecil?” 

Cecil practically jumped back in the car as soon as Martin called, “You guys good? How’d it go? Oh, sweet stars above, there wasn’t some mess break up, right? I - I mean, the listeners would be _devastated-”_

_“_ No. We sorted it out.” Martin lifted their joined hands up for Cecil to see, only blushing a little when the radio host cooed in joy. 

“Perfect! Ah!” Cecil checked his phone, “Well. Nilanjana and Cecil are heading over this way in Basira’s car, which they got back from the Sheriff after lots of discourse and scientific persuasion. They also mentioned spotting a lot of spiders? Basira seemed to think it was important, so...” 

Jon and Martin looked at each other, Annabelle's words echoing in their minds.

Jon’s eyes filled the room with a green glow, “Let’s meet them, then.” 

~ 

A man stood by the entrance to the house that did not exist. 

He examined the house that was not there, a look of mild intrigue on his face. It looked like it was right there. Like you could just reach out and touch it. And it was between two other almost identical houses, so it would make sense for the house to exist. 

But various scientists had run many tests, and all confirmed time and time again that the house did not exist. They dared each other to ring the doorbell and toyed with the notion of a space so paradoxical as the house that didn't exist as children would toy with the idea of death. They knew about it, but they didn't yet understand the full scale of what they talked about and joked about so often. Occasionally, objects and furniture and a woman would be seen in the windows to the non-existent house, but they seemed to not exist either, according to the tests. Sometimes, you could see picture frames on the walls of the house, depicting areas in Night Vale, or a lighthouse, or a lighthouse on top of a mountain, or a mountain on top of a sandy desolate wasteland. 

The man smiled as two cars pulled up to the house, three different people emerging out of each car. Three of the people looked confused to see him there. Two looked at him with suspicion but no knowledge behind their mental accusations. And one man – with eyes that pierced with their sickly green glow – looked at him with a severe expression, the weight of knowledge behind his gaze. 

“Oliver Banks?” 

Oliver nodded curtly, “We meet again. Although, you seem to have a much healthier pallor than before.” he shrugged, his voice never gaining much emotion behind it. Always the aloof and dispassionate embodiment of The End, “Nevertheless, you’ll join us eventually. Everyone does,” 

“Wait, Oliver Banks?” Martin asked, “The guy from the statements?” 

Carlos and Nilanjana both conversed to the side, confused by Oliver but too absorbed in their planned expedition to care too much. Cecil glanced a bit at the strange man, fidgeting with his microphone as if he wanted to interview him, but he too ended up joining the scientists in hushed conversation. 

Oliver spread his hands grandly, “The very same.” 

“Why are you here?” Basira demanded. 

The death avatar looked unphased by her dangerous tone, “Did you know? There’s a planet of awesome size, lit by no sun.” he spoke reverently, “An invisible titan, all thick black forests and jagged mountains and deep, turbulent oceans.

He looked upwards, at the cloudless blue sky, "Sometimes it looms above you. Visible, but impossibly far away. And sometimes it’s so close, so enticingly close. So close that you think if you reach out...” he reached towards the sky, offering his hand to the planet he believed to be there. His last words were an almost inaudible whisper “...you could touch it.” 

“You haven’t answered my question,” Basira growled. 

Jon stepped closer, “Is that Terminus? Is that planet a domain of the end?” 

_Always so desperate to_ _know_. Oliver thought. He curled his hand closed, letting his hand slowly drift back down to his waist, “In a sense...” 

“I’m here because death frequents this desert,” he continued, facing Basira, “it is a home for people like me. Avatars flock here, like migrating birds seeking paradise for the winter. They thrive off the diverse array of fears from a population that accepts the entities like an old friend.” 

Oliver surveyed the town from his vantage point, “It is terrible here...and oh so beautiful.” 

“But you’re at this house for a reason, right?” Basira pressed. 

“...Yes. I followed the roots here,” 

Martin spoke up, tightening his hold on Jon’s hand, “Someone’s going to die at this house? In the otherworld?” 

“I don’t know who will, exactly.” Oliver frowned at the door that did not exist on the front porch of the house, “But it sure seemed like I should be here,” he turned to them archival staff, “so I am.” 

Jon’s shoulders slumped down. This felt more and more like a trap with each passing second, but what choice did he have? Leaving Daisy behind was by no accounts optional for him or Basira or Martin (even though he didn’t know her too well). He was being baited, but for what he didn't know, or Know. He could see the hundred of silver strands of The Web, but he had no idea what shape it took. All he knew was that Daisy would do the same for him.

Carlos placed a hand on Basira’s shoulder, nodding at Martin and Jon “Hey. The plan’s ready,” 

They surrounded the crude map Nilanjana had quickly drawn and spread out on the hood of Basira’s car. The scientist dropped her stub of charcoal (things like pens and pencils were illegal here, as Cecil had explained on the drive to the house) and pointed at a big triangle with a little square at its base, “That’s the mountain, and here’s where you’ll be exiting from. The portal – the house that doesn’t exist - opens up right at the base of the mountain. Then, we’ll climb up and look through the lighthouse for anyone that looks like your friend.” 

“Now, time acts weirdly in this dimension.” she advised, “I mean, it’s weird in Night Vale too. But in here a month would only be a few minutes or so, so just, keep that in mind.” 

Martin pointed at a path of squares, “What’s that?” 

“The new Desert Bluffs,” Carlos said, “We’ll be going there to ask around for your friend if we can’t spot her from the lighthouse.” 

Cecil cringed, “Ugh, do we have to? I know you said they got better, Carlos, but...” 

“I promise you’ll be fine. Strexcorp is gone, from there and here, okay?” 

Martin blushed as Cecil and Carlos kissed, Cecil, responding with a breathy “Alright.” 

“Anyway,” Basira said, anxious to get back to the plan, “anything else to know about, Nilanjana?” 

“Oh, yes actually! The giant centipedes-” 

“Wait - I’m sorry,” Jon interrupted, “The _what_?” 

“There are a few giant centipedes that roam the desert otherworld,” Nilanjana explained casually, “They’re killable, but not without considerable effort. So if you feel any tremors beneath your feet or hear and rumbling, run.” 

Matin groaned, looking down, “I am so _sick_ of centipedes,” 

Nilanjana smiled sympathetically, “Also, we have to watch out for Jonah. Because he’s a big piece of shit according to what Basira has told me,” 

Basira smirked, and Nilanjana rolled up the map and tucked it into a backpack, “Alright, I think that should be all the scientific planning you guys need.” 

They popped open the trunk and took a few weapons per person, sliding them into backpacks and totes that Carlos had brought from the lab. Jon didn’t take any weapons, much to Martin’s worry and reluctant understanding. Nilanjana wished them luck, and headed back to the lab on her own, talking about some sort of pesticide she was working on. 

“All set,” Carlos announced, “Now, let’s go save your friend-” 

“Wait.” 

Basira hesitated, fingers drumming on her belt where she stored her pistol. After a moment of deliberation, she popped the trunk back open and scooped out two whole jars of Nutella, placing them in her own bag. 

“Basira.” Jon interrupted. 

“Yes?” 

He dug into his pockets, presenting her with a shiny mp3 player, still with the headphones attached. 

“It’s...” he coughed, “I was holding onto it, for her. She kept wanting me to listen to The Archers, and a few other horrible bands...” he trailed off, smiling at the bittersweet memory.

Basira went to take the device, holding onto his hand for a moment longer than needed, “Thank you,” she said quietly, tucking it into a pocket of her jacket. 

“Uh - yeah. No - no problem.” 

“Right,” she looked up, determined, dangerously close to hopeful, “Let’s go.” 

They went in one by one, through the entrance to the house that doesn’t exist. Jon went last, and he held the door frame. Oliver leaned against the white paint peeled fence of the house that wasn't there and winked at him.

“Good luck, Archivist.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, we're finally going after Daisy.
> 
> Also thank you so much for the comments and support, it means so much to me that you guys can look at my work and appreciate the little details I put in there I mean! That's! So! Fucking! Cool!


	9. Newly Forged Friendships

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, just a heads up this chapter is going to get a bit darker than normal especially towards the end so here's some warnings. Stay safe.
> 
> Tw Loss of control, Tw manipulation, Tw past traumatic experiences (all canon typical but still I felt they should be put there just in case)

“Jon, you alright?” 

“Yeah...Yes, Martin. Can we just maybe stop for a bit, if you don’t mind?” 

“Yeah, of course. Take your time,” 

Jon sat with a relieved sigh against a big boulder, setting his light pack to the side. He let his hands drift down and feel the soft dusting of sand on the rocky trail they had been hiking for the last.... 

...How long had it been? The Eye didn’t seem to have any answers for him. He looked up at the impossibly blue sky, asking questions to a God he knew did not care to answer, not when he was this weak. 

They had walked from the portal and started their journey up the mountain, heading for the lighthouse Carlos claimed to sit at the top. He looked unnerved, setting foot into the vast expanse, and Jon could tell it stirred up memories he would rather lay safely at the back of his mind. He did a good job of coping with it though, never hesitating or loosening his grip on his partner's hand for a second. Jon wondered if he and Martin would be that close one day. 

“Jon!” 

“Hmm?” 

Martin seemed worried. How long had he been zoned out? “I was asking when the last time you read a statement was,” 

“Oh...” Jon took a moment to process the question, his head aching from the brightness surrounding them, “I think...Ms. Parker was the last one. The, uh, centipede victim?” 

“That seems pretty long ago,” 

“Here!” Cecil waved some sheets of paper he’d stored in his bag, although when he’d had the time to grab them Jon had no idea, “You can do some of the radio reports with me,” 

Cecil sat right next to Jon, handing him the broadcast sheets and digging out a second microphone from his pocket, which should not fit even _one_ microphone. 

Jon read the first few lines of the community calendar, and then held the papers at arm's length, squinting at them suspiciously, “Yeah, no thanks.” 

Martin laughed, “Come on, Jon. You have to try foreign foods from time to time, broaden your horizons.” 

“ _Ha ha_ _._ ” he deadpanned. 

Cecil took the papers back, smoothing them out and clearing his throat, “Suit yourself.” 

He started to read. Jon was transfixed by his steady voice, reading out anything from slightly disturbing community events to borderline terrifying advertisements for Wendys, all in a flat, soothing tone. Was this what _he_ sounded like? Retelling traumatic tales and events, indifferent to the pain described in each word? 

He glanced at Martin, who sat in a circle with Basira and Carlos, chatting about eye avatars and relationships from what he could hear over Cecil’s broadcast. Martin, who promised to stay with him, no matter how out much of him The Eye took over. 

Or...was it The Eye? The Beholder had never really manipulated him like this beforehand. Yes, when he read Jonah’s statement and walked into that church, he couldn't stop the waterfall of words pouring forth from his lips. But full-body control? Manipulating his own arms and legs to drive a car into Night Vale? It was like...like he was being puppeteered or something. Martin’s words came back to him- 

_Do you think it was The Web?_

He’d been so quick to dismiss it, taking the blame upon himself. But combining that theory, Annabelle's appearance, and the influx of spiders spotted by all three of them. Was it possible that The Web was taking a more direct approach? 

Jon shivered at the thought. 

“But for now, Listeners,” Cecil’s voice broke through his thoughts, “while hungry vultures circle our town, demanding blood sacrifices, bone altars, and Jazz music. I give you... _The Weather_.” 

He flicked a switch on the box, music blaring before settling down into a faint background whisper as Cecil fiddled with one of the dials. He sat back against the rocky wall, satisfied. _Satiated_. 

“What was it about?” 

“Hmm?” 

“The statement – I mean, the broadcast.” Jon asked, “What was it about?” 

“Oh,” Cecil looked pleased, making an effort to back casually, “Just the community calendar events, some advertisements, and the daily news. Vultures are invading most of the town, right now, based on what I’ve Seen.” 

“Oh...that’s sounds bad,” Jon said, genuinely worried. 

Cecil waved his concern away, “Eh, happens every decade or so. It always sorts itself out,” 

“Right...” 

“Also,” he hedged, “I have been adding some stuff into the broadcasts about our...little adventure. But don’t worry!” he added before Jon could interrupt, “I haven’t given away our exact location, just that we’re on the mountain.” 

“Could have warned us,” Jon grumbled. 

“Fine, Fine. I’m sorry, but I just couldn’t help myself!” Cecil took a deep breath, looking out at the vast desert expanse that encircled the mountain, seemingly stretching away infinitely. “...Speaking of not helping myself, I did happen to overhear _some_ parts of what you and Martin said in the car-” 

“ _Cecil_ -” 

“-Not that much!” Cecil argued, “Just the beginning. About control,” 

“I wanted to say that I...” and here, Jon saw Cecil struggle for words for the first time he’d known the radio host, “I can relate, sort of, what you’ve been going through.” 

_Oh?_ Jon squinted suspiciously. "How so?"

“See, it’s a bit of a long story. There was this auction, you see?” Cecil explained, “And I was listed among the items-” 

“ _What?_ " 

“-And bought by Hiram McDaniels-” Cecil backtracked, “Well, one of his heads, anyway? The violet one,” 

_One of his heads_? “Who is Hiram McDaniels?” 

“Oh, just a five-headed dragon.” Cecil winced at Jon’s dumbfounded expression, “He used to run for mayor,” 

“...Right. Yeah, sure.” Jon massaged the space between his eyes. He was getting so many headaches for so many reasons today, “Of course. Fine. What happened?” 

“Well,” Cecil sighed, rubbing his arm “I... he used me to do things. Not bad things, necessarily. They were usually very heroic and good things, like saving the mayor. But I still lost control of myself. Many times I would read about myself in the broadcasts but without any memory of doing anything. It was hard. For Me. For Carlos. Even after Violet let me go, I still had that nagging doubt of my own actions.” Cecil smiled halfheartedly, “And a healthy phobia of auctions,” 

He looked at his own hands, “Even though it never happened, I was scared I would do something terrible next time. Like, hurt Carlos. O-or my sister. Or my niece. And I wouldn’t be able to stop myself, just read about it later.” his shoulders slumped.

Jon just stared, mouth hanging open slackly. His exact fears, replicated almost word for word in someone he had just hours ago assumed was an insane, ignorant, and borderline threatening avatar. It was... it was almost overwhelming. 

“I...I had no idea,” he said, hoarsely. 

Cecil smiled, “It happened years ago, but I thought you should know. “ he leaned back, staring up at the painfully blue sky, “Pain is a jagged scar on the surface of ourselves, smoothed away by time and love and other’s understanding until it is but a blip in our minds, instead of the gaping chasm it had once been.” 

"...I feel the same." Jon confessed, sucking in a rough breath “I'm scared. All the time. I'm scared of hurting Martin. And I’m scared he won’t protect himself properly if I try to,” 

Cecil hummed in understanding, “You have to make the choice to trust him. Martin seems like a smart man; he’ll be able to find a way of balancing your safety with his own.” 

Jon looked back at Martin, who laughed with Carlos like they were old friends. Basira even found it in herself to join in the conversation, despite her pressing worries about Daisy. 

“Alright, alright, I will... And thank you,” Jon said, as sincere as he could make it, “I’ll never understand _you_ or your strange _,_ strange town." he shook his head, thinking back to their conversation while Martin was asleep, "But, I think I'd be willing to set aside our differences, sometimes.” 

Cecil’s smile was blinding, “Oh my gosh! We’ll have to invite you over for dinner sometime. You can meet my niece and family – oh! And Khoshekh! Although, you’d have to wear gloves and other safety gear to pet him, if you don’t mind. Oh, he has the most adorable little meow-” 

“Okay, okay, yes.” Jon cut him off, slightly amused, “But later. After we find Daisy,” 

"Of course!"

They helped each other off the ground, Cecil taking a moment to pack his radio supplies before setting back on their long trek up the mountain. 

“You okay?” Martin asked immediately, rushing to his side and hesitating to touch Jon.

“I...” Jon glanced at Cecil, who winked, “Yes, I think so.”

He took Martin's hand again, the weight finally feeling familiar in his own.

They kept hiking for what felt like hours, the cacti and dry bush popping up less and less as their altitude climbed. Jon had to stop several times in their journey to rest his aching legs and pounding head, earning a worried glance from even Basira as they trudged onwards. He could almost cry with relief when the brown tower was finally within sight, its shadow falling over them directly. The shady cool under its roof and walls was at first a soothing balm against his almost feverish body. But this quickly changed for the worse as night suddenly fell, the cold racking him with chills and cold sweats he couldn’t quite hide from the others. 

Carlos had left, promising to keep in touch as he fled down the mountainside, heading for the new Desert Bluffs. Basira had gone with him, anxious to get on the move after they confirmed Daisy was nowhere near the tower. And Martin was sitting on the dusty ground, leaning against Jon and watching the stars from just outside the entrance to the lighthouse. 

“I can’t find any of the ones from back home,” Martin said faintly. “Not that there were many to see. Can’t really get this kind of view from London,” 

“Hmm...” Jon stretched his Knowing powers as far as it could go, which was admittedly not much. “ ** _They aren’t. They’re entirely different each night..._** _”_ he shivered. 

Martin held him closer, and Jon buried his throbbing head into the warm and soft fabric, “Beautiful,” he murmured, quietly, “Both you and the stars.” 

Jon felt heat rise in his cheeks, and he suspected it wasn’t because of the statement deprivation, “Hmmph, that was quite elegant of you.” 

“I am a poet, Jon.” he retorted, though there was no heat behind it, “It’s sort of the whole point.” 

They watched the stars twinkle and shine in the dark night’s sky, basking in the beauty of the moment. And if Jon poked and prodded at his limited knowledge, he could see the faint lines and images they formed. He wanted to tell Martin, point out the dazzling figure of a masked warrior in the sky, and watch his eyes light up with curiosity and wonder. But as he reached up to point, a coughing fit overtook him. Martin was the only reason he didn’t fall to his knees in the sand as he choked on his lungs, gasping for breaths. 

“Jon? Jon! Jo – Cecil, help me get him inside!” 

For a while, all Jon was aware of was the rattling in his chest and the swirl of colors and movement around him. As soon as he caught his breath, there was cold metal pressed to his lips. He drank from the canteen eagerly, taking it from someone's hands with an almost inaudible thank you. The world swerved back into focus, Martin and Cecil crouched in front of him, both varying degrees of worried.

He rested his chin against his chest, "Shit."

“Shit indeed." Martin agreed, taking his hand in his, "Look, I know you said you didn’t want to. But I’d really appreciate it if you at least tried to read a part of Cecil’s broadcast. Just for now, okay?” 

Jon looked away and nodded, relenting without much difficulty since the coughing had only doubled the pounding of his headache. 

Cecil grinned, “Great! According to Carlos’s calculations, The Weather should be done for our listeners by now, so it’s perfect timing.” 

The box of wires and switches (Which Jon doubted was used in any official setting outside of Night Vale) was plopped next to him with a heavy thump, whirring and humming like a big overcomplicated tape recorder. Cecil fished out his microphone and counted down from 3, flicking down a switch labeled ‘weather’. 

“Welcome back, Listeners.” a crackle of static, like a mirror of Jon’s own, “Today, I will be handing the new announcements and updates to our newest visitor, and now agreeable companion. Jonathan Sims, The Archivist.” he handed over the mic and whispered _“I’m_ _gonna_ _go outside, get some air. Catch you two later,”_

“I - oh – right – how does this – aha...Hello, um, Night Vale.” Jon winced at the thought of people listening to this, “Your regular host is not here, so I instead will be filling in for him. Hmm...” 

Martin handed him the papers, smiling and giving him a quick thumbs-up before settling beside him. 

“Martin - what?” 

“I’m not having another Jonah statement,” Martin argued, crossing his arms against his chest, “Oh! Sorry. Martin Blackwood, tuning in as well.” 

“Right,” Jon settled in. _This couldn’t possibly be the weirdest thing this town has listened to on the radio, right?_ “First, some updates on the vultures...” 

~ 

The radio host hummed as he strolled on a small path in the mountain, keeping the lighthouse in the corner of his vision at all times. He squinted in the starlight, picking through spiky bushes and making sure not to stop on the poisonous tails of the wild cats that roamed these desert wastes. 

Now, usually, he did not trust others to do the broadcast for him. Radio hosting was a sacred position and a dangerous game. But just this once...it would be okay, right? Jon really needed the pick me up right about now, so, Cecil could make an exception. Plus, The Archivist seemed to have survived way worse than station managements wrath, anyway, going by the many scars upon his flesh Cecil could spot.

Speaking of flesh... 

There was a mound of pale flesh that had suddenly appeared in front of him, moving and twitching on the narrow dirt trail. It had hair and human features and limbs, and clothes that were tattered and dirty. It groaned, softly, pulling itself to its full height. In fact, Cecil thought, it looked quite similar to a man. A man in something that – at one time – must have been a suit. 

“H...hello?” the man said, in a hoarse tone. 

“Uh, hi there!” Cecil greeted him warmly, deciding to ignore the chill of unease spreading through him. First impressions weren’t everything, right? 

The man blinked his brown, almost yellow eyes a few times. As if he were struggling to assimilate his worldview to fit someone like Cecil into it, “Who...?” he gasped, “Y-you’re Cecil. Cecil Gershwin Palmer,” 

“Indeed...” Cecil tried for a smile, but it fell flat, “You might know me from the Night vale community radio? I’m the radio host,” 

“I...yes, of course.” the man huffed out a laugh, offering his grimy hand to Cecil, who took it, “Elias Bouchard. I’m a big fan, actually.” 

He beamed. Stupid flight or fight instincts! First impressions were not to be trusted indeed. This man was just a genuine fan of the show, stuck in this horrible desert otherworld like many others, “I’m delighted you enjoy it!” 

“Yes. You know,” Elias shook his head, “I always thought that the radio needed a newer, fresher voice to it. And then you came along! I mean, it was like a breath of fresh air, listening to you speak.” 

Cecil blushed, “Oh my! Such high praise. I mean, if you knew my predecessor, you must have been listening for a long time” 

Elias shrugged, “Oh, yes. Been around for many years, listened to all sorts of radio. But you-” he pointed, “You, my friend? You have a spark! A passion! Why, I would pay thousands to hear you say just _one_ of my advertisements on your radio, read out by your beautiful voice.” 

_Thousands_? Cecil waved his hands, “For you? I would do it for free, my gracious Listener. But, unfortunately...” Cecil clicked his tongue, “Ah, it’s such a shame. I left my radio recording supplies behind. Oh, I'm so _so_ sorry-” 

Elias splayed his hands, “No matter, no matter. Leave the radio supplies. I would be honored, just honored, if you read my ad word for word? Not even on the radio, just here, now.” 

Oh, he was _so_ polite. Even after being disappointed by Cecil not carrying around his customary radio equipment - which everyone knows that professional radio hosts always carry around the proper radio supplies (A radio box, gardening gloves, a machete, a boxing gloves, antidote serums, hand-knitted gloves, a mic, etc. ) at all times! - even then he was cordial and forgiving. Cecil looked like a fool! “The _least_ I could do for you, Elias, is read your ad. Here, do you have it on your person?” 

“Actually,” Elias’s grin was wide as he reached into his tattered jacket and procured a few, old, yellowed pieces of paper, “Here you go! As loud and clear as possible, please.” 

The papers were covered in stains and were fragile as butterfly wings under Cecil’s fingertips, but he’d read worse before. The eyes around him focused on the page as he cleared his voice. 

“Hungry? Wendy’s invites you to a weekend of fun!” Cecil’s brow furrowed as he read on, “Come join us in celebration of the ritual: The....the awakening of The Eye...” 

He struggled to quiet his voice, his most powerful feature used against him in a cruel mockery. The words that poured from his mouth were not his own, and he panicked as he fought to force his jaw shut. To move his shaking hands from the fragile pages. To look away from the print on the paper.

But he couldn't move or fight. He could only say words, torn from his throat against his will.

_No..._

“I...” he gasped, silent tears rolling down his cheeks. _A fool. He was a damned fool_. “I suggest you don’t try to...to _fight –_ _agh_ _! –_ it, for it will only cause pain for you and stop nothing. _N –_ No _,_ no! _– Now,_ shall we turn the page?” 

Jonah looked on hungrily as Cecil shook with sobs that wouldn’t push out of his throat, the monotone reciting of the ritual the only noise that escaped his lips.

The page turned with a soft rustle, and Cecil spoke clearly.

" Cecil, where to begin with you?"  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey so I really appreciate all the support this fic has been getting you know I mean 1000 views is a huge landmark that I never expected to reach and it constantly amazes me that something so specific I wrote mostly just for self-indulgence has garnered a small but nonetheless breathtaking audience like hello Jon apologies for the deception but I wanted to make sure you started reading so I thought it best not to introduce myself


	10. [Exit, Pursued By Centipede]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some graphic violence in this chapter, be warned

“Well, Desert Bluffs!” Kevin said cheerfully into the mic, drawing patterns with his fingertip into the bloodstained studio table, “I think that’s all for today. Till next time, and remember: The Smiling God loves each and every one of you-” 

A knocking, on the studio door. Kevin’s smile twitched out of place. You’re not supposed to interrupt a radio host when they’re recording, everyone knows that! None the less, he put on a big smile and beckoned whoever was knocking inside with a great big “Oh, my. Who could it be listeners? Come on in!” 

The door opened. 

“Carlos?” 

Carlos stood awkwardly, one hand on the doorframe and another ruffling his beautiful curly hair. 

“Hi, Kevin. It’s – um – nice to see you again.” he looked up, “I see you’ve re-done the studio; fewer body parts,” 

“Oh...um, thanks for noticing!” Kevin was very good at putting on a smile, even if his insides squirmed and questioned and felt cold with bitterness he thought had gone away after so long, “We got rid of most of the blood and viscera after it went out of style. I mean, Millennials these days, ruining the organ and blood wall industry.” 

They both laughed, desperate to hold onto any attempts at a casual conversation. 

“So, why did you come back?” Kevin tried to keep the accusation out of his voice, as it was an impolite and un-happy emotion. But Carlos winced anyway. 

“Right. I need you to broadcast something to your listeners,” he explained, “There’s a missing woman, her name’s Daisy-” 

A woman stepped into the studio, sounding frustrated but looking concerned, “Alice Daisy Tonner. She’s tall, with short blond hair, and brown eyes. She also...” she swallowed, “She also might be...not human. A predator - make you feel like you're being hunted. So call in. Please.” 

“...Well,” Kevin turned back to the mic, sinking back into that classic radio tone, “You heard her, Desert Bluffs. If you see this woman, or feel her intimidating hunting presence. Well, you know the station to call.” 

“Good night, Desert Bluffs.” Kevin said in a softer tone, looking directly at Carlos, “And may you too meet old friends, as the sun sets on our lovely little town.” 

The click of the mic turning off echoed in the station, the quiet a thick fog. 

“Look..." Carlos said, but didn’t add on. 

“It’s been a while,” Kevin said, head rested upon fists, “since you left that letter-” 

“Ugh, three? Seriously?” the woman groaned, pinching her nose, “I’ll leave you two to your drama, or whatever issues you have. Just get it done with quickly,” she stalked out impatiently 

“Basira-” but she was already gone. “Kevin-” 

“But,” the radio host continued, tracing a bloodstain shaped like a wobbly cat “I suppose bygones will have to be bygones, since it seems you’re doing something that’s obviously incredibly important. Or, you wouldn’t have returned to this place in the first place.” 

Carlos sighed, “Kevin, I really am sorry. But I _had_ to return home, to the people I love. My family and friends were waiting for me in Night Vale, and I couldn't stay. No matter how scientifically fascinating this otherworld was,” 

“I know!” Kevin said, feeling un-joyful once again. This was different though. Like his guts were tightening together and creating an uncomfortable heat, “And that's why it was so hard to stay mad at you! It’s really not your fault, and you don’t deserve my – ugh, what did Charles call this emotion...? Frustration!” 

Carlos sighed, “You have every right-” 

“No, I don’t.” Kevin said, “You should be with the people you love, not kept here because of some little crush I had years ago.” 

Carlos...Carlos really couldn’t argue with that. 

“Plus...” the radio host smiled. A true one this time, “I’m seeing someone else, now.” 

“Oh... Good for you,” Carlos smiled back. Not the true Smiling God smile, but a handsome one nonetheless. _Handsome_. He could think that, and not have his gut twist in emotions that couldn’t be returned. Really, why did people say emotions were contained in the heart? The guts hold more emotion than the heart could ever hold. 

“Well,” Carlos continued, “we can catch up, I guess. I’ll be revisiting places, asking around for Daisy.” 

They both smiled, hesitantly. The beginnings of a new relationship, formed from the ashes of their previous one. Kevin led Carlos out of the radio station, pointing out all the new developments to the town. The construction site for the new cat park, the great pit, the yoga studio of doom, and the new frozen yogurt place. Basira only looked mildly horrified when he described the new flavors (Viscera, Rocky Road But With Literal Road Chunks, Spicy, The Forbidden Flavor, and Seltzer), too preoccupied with searching for Daisy.

They also talked about their respective relationships. Kevin’s new dating life, and all the joy his new son Donovan has brought into his life. Carlos’s wedding, which was beautiful and terrifying and entirely unique, just like the town. 

“What about you, Basira?” Kevin asked, almost obnoxiously optimistic as Carlos motioned cutting his neck in a desperate attempt to get him to stop behind Basira’s back. “Is Daisy a friend, or more?” 

“...More, I think.” Basira said stiffly, hefting up her bag, “We were partners. Why do you ask?” 

Kevin nodded sympathetically, “That must be tough. Don’t worry, there’s no way she went too far. Trust me, we tried sending people out farther, but they just looped back around. It’s almost impossible to escape, just like most places!” 

“Sure, fine.” she looked away, at first just not to see Kevin’s misplaced hope. And then to catch the small scuttling spiders before they disappeared behind a window of an old, decrypted building. A shiver traveled down her spine at the sheer number of webs covering the dusty, damaged window. Cracks stretched across the glass, each of them spiderweb shaped. "What's that building?"

“Oh!” Kevin tilted his head, “You know, I’m not sure. Just showed up one day,” 

“And you didn’t even think to question that?!” she asked incredulously. 

The radio host shrugged, “The Smiling God said not to question it. Or, at least, the posters from this prophetic woman that saw the will of the Smiling God said not to question it.” 

“What _woman?”_

Kevin fished out a poster, bloodstained and similar to the one Martin had found inside his coat pocket. “ _By Annabelle Cane, in association with the high priests and priestesses of Desert Bluffs and the Night Vale Secret Police.”_

Basira cursed, “Alright...Fine. We’re gonna have to go in there and investigate,” 

“What-” 

“But the Smiling God said-” 

She unholstered her gun, keeping it steady in front of her while she silently opened the door. Carlos took out his own knife as the spiders crawled around their feet, dodging between their shoes. Kevin cooed at each spider in adoration. 

“Aww, you’re so cute. But!” Kevin added, hastily straightening up to full height, “I _cannot_ accompany you on this journey, for my devotion to The Smiling God is absolute-” 

“Oh my gosh – look!” Basira whisper-shouted, waving the flyer in his face,”It’s fake! Annabelle isn’t a real prophet; She’s an avatar of The Web!” 

“And your point is?” Kevin asked sassily. “I happen to be both a prophet and an avatar myself, ma’am.” 

“She’s using the flyer to manipulate everyone,” Carlos explained, “covering up the true intentions of this place through misplaced faith.” 

“Well, then we shouldn’t go! We should get help!” Kevin whined, “It could be danger-” 

Basira groaned in frustration, tugging Kevin along. He put up a bit of a fight, but kept getting distracted by all the “adorable” spiders. Carlos followed: the investigation was a key component of science, after all. 

The air was filled with dust and spider webs that tugged at their clothes. The spiders parted to let them go through, crawling back into place as soon as they left. Room after room was decorated the same; boxes on top of boxes of flyers, each of them decorated with a big grinning spider. _Jon would have hated it._

_“Oooooo!_ Look at that beauty! What species are _you_ , cutie pie?” 

Basira pinched the bridge of her nose, “Does everyone here have to be so goddamn insane?” 

“Uh, guys?” Carlos said, nervously peeking out a doorway, “I think I hear voices,” 

“Shit! Hide!” 

She shoved Kevin behind some crates while she and Carlos hid behind a box of...thick heavy chains? 

She couldn’t investigate it further, though, as footsteps approached. The voices were energetic, and passionate, and... familiar. 

“Those damned institute employees!” screeched an old and croaky voice. The priestess, Basira realized. 

“I’ll make them pay!” she continued, bursting into the room. Her yellow hat flopping dangerously off balance. “For destroying my precious church! And I’ll get that weird long-handed friend of theirs, too.” 

“Now, now, Priestess.” consoled a stranger, clad in a balaclava and Secret Sheriff’s badge. “It was just a little blip. No harm done to the big plan,” 

“Still want my compensation,” she grumbled. 

A familiar, high-pitched laugh. The spiders scuttled to the door, climbing up Annabelle Cane’s dress like hundreds of excited dogs. “Oh, you’ll get your compensation and more if everything goes to plan. Sam, are your Secret Police ready?” 

The Sheriff – Sam – puffed out their chest, “Yep! All in position with all the necessary...supplies.” 

Annabelle nodded, striding dangerously close to Kevin’s hiding spot as she looked out the mirror, brushing back a cobweb. From the large dusty glass, you had a clear view of the mountain. Basira thought she could see the lighthouse from where she was hidden. 

“Looks like things are all going to plan,” Annabelle placed a hand on the glass, reverently gazing at the mountain peak, “Soon, my friends. Soon we will be the only ones in control. The Spider’s Web is almost complete, we just need to weave the last strands.” she clapped, spinning on her heel, “Places, everyone! It’s time for the big performance,” 

Sam and the priestess both grinned with malicious intent. 

“Finally!” 

“Oh, I can’t wait to see them eaten by that centipede!” 

They rushed out of the room, leaving Basira starring out the window, at the lighthouse. Concerned. 

“What was that all about?” Carlos asked, sounding equally uneased. 

“ _ I think I know...” _

Basira felt an itching sensation travel down her back, like hundreds of eyes staring while she was turned away. She turned around, her worst fears confirmed when Kevin straightened up from his hiding place. He was.... 

He was _all eyes_. All yellow piercing eyes she could never hope to escape from. 

Kevin stumbled – as though in a daze – to the window. His shaking fingers left a trail behind as they scrapped against the dusty surface of the window, watching the mountain in awe and terror in equal measures. The sun had disappeared behind thick and dark green clouds that swirled and crackled with thunder around the tip of the mountain. The red-light was covered by the churning storm, as well as the lighthouse. 

“ _The eye...”_ Kevin said, putting a palm to his heart, _“It’s opening...Oh my Smiling God, it opens.”_

Carlos gasped, “Oh my gosh, Cecil! Your friends! We-we’ve got to go, come on - ….Kevin, please.” 

Kevin grinned, stretching his lips back further and further until it was painful. A smile like that reminded Basira of how animals used to show their teeth to intimidate instead of to greet. 

“ _Oh, we won’t have to worry about them for much longer._ ” Kevin said, “ _We won’t have to worry about anything, much longer._ ” 

Little ripples formed in the clouds; half-moon shaped. Like closed eyelids. Carlos and Basira ran out of the house of webs, hoping and praying that it wouldn’t be too late when they arrived. 

~ 

The phone in Cecil’s pocket vibrated. The noise almost blotted out by the howling winds and rumbling thunder. 

“ _Hey! Cecil! What’s going on up there? Are you guys okay? Me, a-and_ _Basira_ _found this building, and there were all these spiders_ _.... I_ _\- I think The Web – Annabelle – is planning something, along with Sheriff Sam and the high priestess of The Smiling God, too. We’re coming over now...Stay safe. Please.”_

Cecil notices. He would cry, if he had the tears left. He would shout back into the phone, tell his husband how much he loves him before he finishes the words on the paper, if he could say anything other than the words written down. He wants to run and hold Carlos as the end of this era and the dawning of a new age creeps closer with each word, if his hands could move from the paper they had clamped onto. 

The storm rages on. Jonah looks up at the clouds, feeling his sight reach farther and farther. The panopticon back at the institute would have been nice, but he would settle with the lighthouse on the mountain. It could be cleaned up after he finished the ritual. 

“ _Jonah"_ A different voice, over the monotone of the Watcher's Crown. 

“Jon,” Jonah said, turning to see his Archive. His perfected masterpiece that he’d have to abandon using after so much time and effort. It still made his blood boil to see such a wasted opportunity. “So nice to see you, after all this time.” 

“All this time...?” Jon winced as Cecil opened another eye, voice jumping almost imperceptibly, “ **_How long have you been here?_ ** ” 

Jonah was happy to oblige. “ _Months._ Month in this hellish desert, with its damnable wildlife and demonic town.” he paced, sand kicking up under his shoes, “I have been _wasting_ away, planning and having to settle with the bare minimum” 

He pointed a shaking finger at Cecil, eyes wild, “I had to settle for him! I put so much time into you, planning your marks with painstaking accuracy. And now I have to complete the ritual with this joke?! I, mean-” Jonah threw his hands into the air, “It works, but all that effort has been wasted away. It's humiliating,” 

Jonah collected himself, smiling as Cecil reached the last page, “Nevertheless, no matter the avatar, I still shall still be king of a ruined world. And I shall never die,” 

“You might not die,” Jon said, still just standing, without making a single move to stop Jonah. “but you certainly won’t be alive.” 

He was about to make some smart reply when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Something flashed before his eyes. 

Then he saw nothing. 

Then he Saw nothing. 

Far away, slack in the throne at the center of the panopticon, Jonah screamed. 

~ 

Martin held the bloody knife Basira had lent them, watching Elias’s corpse crumple and fold to the floor. As soon as the body hit the floor, Jon launched himself bodily at Cecil, snatching the paper away before the ritual could finish and ripping it to shreds. 

Martin watched the eyes roll to a blood stop on the ground with a morbid intensity. After all that had happened, he could barely believe it. The sun peaked out from behind the storm clouds, illuminating the gory but victorious scene. He nudged the body, just to make sure. He'd been hoping that maybe, just maybe, the original Elias would come back after Jonah left his body. But it seemed that Elias was truly gone for good.

“Martin, help me-” 

_Shit! Cecil._ "Oh! R-right, coming!” 

Speaking of people that hadn't gotten away from the conflict so easily. They both had to help Cecil stand, loop an arm under his shoulders, as his legs wouldn’t support his own weight. Martin winced in sympathy as the radio host shook, vibrant purple eyes unfocused, mouth moving without sound. Disturbingly familiar to Jon’s reaction. They should call Carlos- 

“Martin?” 

“Um, yeah?” 

“Do you feel that?” 

“Feel...? Oh my gosh what is that?” 

Static. And a green glow as Jon Looked for what was causing the tremors in the ground by their feet. 

“ **_Oh my_ ** ...Martin, run.” 

“Wha-” 

“Run!-” 

They hurried to the side as the shaking worsened, carrying Cecil with them. The ground fell away into itself to reveal a dark writhing mass of limbs and antennae. The centipede unfurled from its hole and opened its gaping mandibles, diving at Elias’s corpse with a horrible roar and crunching sound. Martin kept very, very still, hoping that Cecil wouldn't make too much noise in his dazed state.

The centipede clicked its legs on the ground rhythmically, kicking up dust, antennas searching while Jon and Martin tried to keep as quiet as possible. It still had Jonah's hand dangling out the side of its mandibles (Which, it was unfairly funny to Martin that of all things to take Jonah’s last body, it was a _giant desert centipede_ ) 

Finally, the centipede seemed satisfied. Raising its antennae to the sky one more, it turned around. And with great difficulty, it dived back into its hole. 

Martin sighed in relief, and also because he’d been holding his breath. “Oh...oh thank god. Oh my gosh...We... we did it! Ha! Jon?” 

Jon kept staring at the pit, numbly, "Yes we...we did. But the centipede... ** _Ah!_** "

"Jon? _Jon!"_

Jon collapsed to his knees, almost bringing Cecil down with him. Martin tugged Cecil up, gently setting him down onto a rock before checking on Jon. "What? What is it?"

" ** _The centipede's hungry. It's heading for the hunter_**....the hunter...It's heading for Daisy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TFW your evil boss monologue gets you killed by your Archivist's boyfriend


	11. Daisy Joins The Battle!

After calling Basira and Carlos, they all agreed to meet at the bottom of the mountain, which was thankfully easier and quicker than going up. They’d been trekking for a while through the desert, Jon keeping them on track even when they couldn’t see the huge mole tunnel protrusions from the sand. Everyone had been eager to get there as fast as possible, most of all Basira, who sped walked under the now risen blazing desert sun like it didn’t mean a damned thing to her. 

...Not everyone shared her determined energy. 

“Cecil!’” 

A soft sound, like a sack of flour falling. Carlos rushed to where Cecil was flailing in the sand, trying and failing to get up again in the sand. They all watched on in poorly concealed concern as Carlos ignored Cecil waving him off and helped him stand again. 

“Alright, there you go,” Carlos said softly, words as light as sand grains in the wind. “We should stop for a bit,” 

Cecil’s eyes widened, and he shook his head furiously. _Daisy. Daisy was more important right now. She was in danger, and the minutes they wasted could be her last-_

“Take a break, everyone.” Basira commanded, gaze lingering on Cecil and Carlos, “We don't be able to help Daisy if we lose all our energy by pushing ourselves,” 

They sat in the shade of a large boulder, the desert expanse vast and with no trace of life except for the huge footprints left in the shadows of the stone. Basira checked her weapons, taking an entire shotgun out of her bag and keeping an eye on the horizon.

Cecil was quiet as Carlos handed him some water. He hadn’t talked since the ritual, trying to do so only ending with him snapping his jaw back shut in horror. But Carlos wasn't complaining or anything! Cecil obviously needed time to recover, and when they’d both first seen each other at the base of the mountain Cecil had shaken himself out of his daze, smiled, and waved to him. So Carlos had hope that his husband would be alright. 

Carlos snapped back to reality to the sound of typing. It was Cecil, typing into his phone. He leaned over Cecil’s shoulder to get a better look. 

_I’m sorry._

“Cecil,” Carlos said, “there’s nothing for you to be sorry about-” 

More typing. _I caused us to stop. Daisy is in danger._

“Basira _volunteered_ to stop,” Carlos argued, “Look, we all needed some rest after today, especially you.” 

Cecil typed determinedly. 

_I don’t need pity, Carlos. Daisy needs us right now. And the Web is planning something, too. I can rest later, but not when someone is in danger like this._

He stopped, fingers hovering over the screen before continuing to type. 

_I spent too long just stuck in my booth, letting people get hurt and killed and worse while I just reported their deaths. I’m no hero, Carlos, I’m a radio host. But I want to help save someone._

With that, Cecil held his breath, determined expression a thin cover-up of his own nervousness as Carlos read and re-read the words. Finally, he nodded. 

“I understand, Cecil. I do. But you have to look out for yourself before you can possibly help others, or else you’re no help at all.” Carlos looked for a scientific explanation for Cecil, “You know those instructions they give you on airplanes? Where you have to put on your own mask and then help others nearby in the event of a crash?” 

Cecil nodded. He remembered exactly what Carlos was talking about: 

_Do you mean those instructions on the little pamphlets?_ Cecil typed, The _ones that say: If the cabin air pressure changes dramatically, oxygen masks might fall from the ceiling directly in front of you. Follow the airline's instructions in operating their masks. If a child is seated beside you, put on your own mask before helping to put a mask on the child. If only one mask drops, you and the child must make eye contact and fight fiercely in hand-to-hand combat for said mask. The victor of the battle gets to fly the plane and then drown in their own sorrow and guilt for having such young and innocent blood split on their hands. The victor, now overcome with grief, will be too distracted to drive the plane. Thus making the air pressure drop again and continuing the process until one victor is left driving the plane, coated in blood and sick with guilt. That is how plane pilots are chosen. That one?_

“...Yeah, sort of.” Carlos said, finally. He’d mostly gotten used to Night Vale by now, but phrases like that reminded him of just how strange his little town could be. “But those first few sentences are mostly what I was referring to. If you don’t get oxygen for yourself, how are you supposed to help someone else, Cecil?” 

Cecil went immediately to retort, but then stopped. Hesitantly, he typed out something else. 

_O K. Fine. Maybe you have a point,_ _Mr_ _. Smart Guy._

Carlos smiled, offering Cecil his hand. Cecil took it and smiled briefly before typing. 

_I’m going to go ask Martin and Jon to do the radio broadcast, for now._

“I’m sure they’d be happy to help,” 

Cecil squeezed Carlos’s palm and stood. 

Martin and Jon were more than happy to do the radio broadcast. And Carlos, watching from a distance, could hear Cecil croak out a small “Thanks, guys.” as they set up the radio. 

“The sand is hot, but the sun is hotter.” Jon said into the mic, “Statement begin- I mean, welcome to Night Vale...” 

They alternated speaking, sinking into a feeling of familiarity almost immediately. Jon did the horoscopes and once again lost his faith in fortune-telling while Martin tried not to laugh and ruin the audio. Martin attempted to do some freestyle poetry on air, after much encouragement from Jon. They even got Basira to fill in with weapon safety facts for the children's fun fact corner, as the script for that was covered in ancient sigils that they couldn’t read aloud on tape without static covering their voices. 

“And now, the news.” Jon squinted, “The Sheriff’s Secret police have recently announced their plans for expanding past Night Vale into other desert towns and the world beyond. Sam has announced they will be doing this in conjunction with the leaders of the Joyous Congregation of The Smiling God, who also plan on expanding their religion across the globe...hm. Thoughts, Martin?” 

“That’s a scary combo,” said Martin, who had taken surprisingly well to speaking into the mic to a live audience after his first run, “I mean, law _and_ religion?” 

_“_ Yeah, and they’re terrible. I mean, they just – Martin, they literally picked us up without cause. That’s illegal – well,” Jon sniffed pretentiously, “at least, it’s illegal in most places.” 

“I wouldn’t want to live like that.” Martin stated firmly, “I’d rebel. No smiling cult for me, thank you kindly.” 

“You wouldn’t be able to. They’re backed by a military force, so any revolt would be squashed down by force. It’s a proper dystopia, really... are you alright, Martin?” 

But Martin wasn’t listening. He was too preoccupied with images of spiders and Annabelle’s vicious smile and webs attached to flyers running through his mind’s eye. 

“Oh my gosh, you're right!” he said, voice barely above a whisper. 

“What? Martin, what’s wrong?” 

Martin fumbled with his jacket pocket, pulling out the crumpled flyer and flipping to the very back. Jon nearly reeled back when the very familiar crude drawing of a spider grinned widely back at him from the last page. A fine print was written underneath his long spindly legs that Martin read aloud. 

“ _By Annabelle Cane, in association with the high priests and priestesses of Desert Bluffs and the Night Vale Secret Police.”_ Martin waved the flyer wildly, “Don’t you know what this means, Jon?!” 

“That Annabelle has a creative side?” Jon tried, eyeing the beautiful but genuinely horrifying drawings in the flyer. 

“Wha- No! Jon, this is serious! Come on,” 

He pointed at the flyer viciously while Jon rolled his eyes and mumbled out an apology, “It means that Annabelle is working with the Joyful Congregation _and_ the Secret Police. Faith and military power – I mean, if she did manage to spread out both groups to the rest of the world, she’d have complete control!” 

Jon nodded, catching on, “The Web would be in control of everything. Who knows what sort of dangerous esoteric weapons they have stored here?” 

“Exactly!” 

“But, how would they escape Night Vale? It’s near impossible to get in or out...Impossible to.... **_I mpossible to escape her gaping jaws and sharp fangs and mauling claws that hold weak prey in place as they desperately try to run or hide or fight or fawn or anything to get away alive _ ** _...she..excuse me. Martin, take the radio to the Weather...” _ The eyes opened, the green glow illuminating Jon’s grimace as he keeled over himself and clutched his head. The only thing stopping him from going face-first into the sand was Martin’s strong arms holding him up. 

“Uh, Jon?” 

“ _I...._ I’m good. I’m good, I-I'm fine.” he waved off Martin’s help and struggled up to stand, “But we need to get ready. Daisy’s near.” 

“Oh... _Ooooh_ _kay._ Right,” Martin fumbled with his knife, clutching it in trembling hands. A tiny pathetic thing, really. He’d used it to cut out Jonah’s eyes earlier, but Martin doubted it would be useful for fending off a hunter. Fighting back would probably excite her more. 

They all kept their backs to the boulder, gazing out warily. Carlos held Cecil's hand and wielded his back like a sword, showing off his lack of knowledge on how to use said bat to defend himself. Jon and Martin stood, weary and ready to finally meet what happened become of their friend. Basira readied her shotgun-

"Weren't you going to try to save her?" Jon asked harshly.

Basira glanced back, "It's just in case she tries anything-"

"Oh, so you're just going to shoot her? Right in the head? You're just going to give up on her that easily-"

"Shut up, Jon!" she snapped, shogun dropping to the side. "You think this is fucking easy for me? This decision?"

Jon backed down, guiltily looking down.

"I don't want to kill her," Basira continued, glancing down at the bag next to her. It was filled with Nutella and The Archers recorded on a banged-up iPod. Simple items, really. No worth without context:

_Daisy joking with Basira about how she was "dating" The Archivist. Daisy getting frustrated with her stretches after the coffin. Daisy introducing everyone in the archives to the Archers, including Basira, fulling knowing everyone hated it and not giving a damn. Daisy struggling to breathe after trying to go into an elevator for the first time and beating herself up about it later. Daisy, leaving her iPod at the hospital room for Melanie to borrow. Daisy, telling Basira to kill her before attacking Julia and Trevor._

Basira took a deep breath, steadying herself, "But I have to be prepared for a worst-case scenario. So fuck off, Jon."

Jon seemed to understand. "Alright....Alright,"

They all waited, scanning the horizons and anticipating her arrival... 

... 

...A deep grating growl. One that makes a twisting cold feeling deep in your stomach rise. One that makes your foot tap in anticipation to run, or your fist clench in anticipation to fight. Basira braced herself, keeping her shotgun in one hand and her bag of memories in the other.

Daisy appeared suddenly, fur blonde like her hair and caked with sand and dirt. You couldn’t tell her apart from the ground of the desert until she wanted you to see her. Her steps were all carefully calculated to be silent against the shifting sand as she inched closer and closer, licking her many, many jaws. 

“D-Daisy?” Jon asked, “Daisy, do you remember us? It’s me. It...It’s Jon. And Basira and Martin.” 

Daisy’s eyes showed no recognition, focused on some other thing that had caught her blood-lusting attention. The low growl seemed to rumble the ground below their feet. 

Basira had a clear shot from here. Daisy wasn't even focused on her. It was perfect timing and everything.

She didn't shoot.

“Ah, _Jon?_ " Martin backed up until his back hit the wall. How ironic that their shelter had so suddenly turned into a trap. 

“Yes, Martin?” 

“I don’t think she hears us!” 

“Just... don't panic. We'll be easier prey if we’re afraid - Daisy, it's us!” 

“That doesn’t give me much hope!” Martin half whispered; half yelled. Daisy was almost arm's length away now. The growl was so loud it seemed to shake Martin’s entire body... 

_Wait..._

Daisy barked and leaped, jaws wide enough to show off every layer of sharp jagged teeth. Martin covered his face and yelped. Basira still didn't shoot.

Daisy bounded over Martin, scrambling on top of the boulder and launching herself off it.

See, there _had_ been a rumbling underneath Martin’s foot, but not from Daisy's cold-blooded growl. The rumbling was from a centipede. A gigantic, writhing, corrupting centipede, that had been tunneling through the Earth before sensing a quick meal and diving up into the sunlight.

Daisy bounded towards it sinking her teeth into the centipede’s hard shell as soon as it emerged. It let out a shriek, squirming completely out of its tunnel and failing to catch Daisy in Its huge crushing mandibles. 

Basira made her decision. She sprinted closer to the furious centipede and shot two rounds into its exposed belly. It howled, and she had to duck as the legs hit the ground around her. The two hunters danced and dodged and attacked the centipede furiously, which howled so piercingly the onlookers had to cover their ears.

"God! Ah," Martin said, crouching down and holding his head as the painful wail tapered out. "What do we do? Do we help them-"

"No, no." Jon yelled, "I think they're doing alright. They are hunters, after al- AH! Cecil, what the hell?!"

Jon scrambled back from Cecil, who had something small and fuzzy and many-limbed cupped in his palms.

“Oooo” Cecil cooed, petting the spider gently, “Hello cutie~ What brings you here? You brought a _lot_ of friends, huh?” 

It had, in fact, brought many friends. Spiders surrounded them on all sides, scuttling closer and weaving webbing around their legs expertly with thick and silky strands. Martin yelped, trying to run. But his feet were already stuck fast by the time he noticed there were webs in the first place

“Shit. Shit _shit_ _._ ” Jon struggled and failed to get out the webbing. Carlos’s bat did nothing against the trapping webs. Cecil was useless, barely noticing the increasingly dangerous situation as he pet the adorable little tarantula that had settled comfortably in his hair. 

Basira and Daisy weren’t fairing any better. The webs trapped them to their places, no matter how much they struggled or growled. Even Daisy’s sharp fangs and claws stood no match. 

"Oh no. Oh no oh _no!_ " in his struggle, Martin looked around for help. He didn't find any. Instead, he found a black car, steadily coming closer until it stopped right in front of them. A familiar woman stepped out, flanked by a stout person sporting a sheriff's badge and a priest with a floppy yellow hat.

“You know, spider silk is one of the most powerful substances on the planet.” Annabelle commented, slamming the car door close. “So don’t try to struggle, because there’s no way you’ll escape.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anabelle just loves cliffhangers y'all


	12. Centipedes Are Your Best Friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I haven't updated in years but you guys deserve an ending. Here's the penultimate chapter

“We meet again, Archivist.” 

“ **_What do you want?_ ** " 

She barred her teeth in a stunning grin, stepping over the hundreds of spiders who made way for her until he was inches away from his face. 

“Now stop that, or we’ll be in a lot of trouble.” 

She smiled, backed up, and strode in front of them like they were an audience to her show. 

“Honestly, I should thank you. I wouldn’t have gotten rid of pesky old Jonah if not for you all.” pausing in her pace, she met Martin’s eyes. Martin didn’t like what he saw in hers. “Kudos to you, for that.” 

Annabelle frowned when she noticed the big hole. The one that the centipede had come from and eventually retreated into while no longer under attack. It’s glaring emptiness was an offense to her. “Of course, there are some complications. But mistakes in webbing only make the end result more beautiful, right?” 

Jon couldn’t stop himself. “ **_What’s your plan_ ** , **_Annabelle?_ ** " 

“My _plan_ was to follow the centipede to the doors to get **_out_ **of this godforsaken desert-” she covered her hand with her palm, muffling the rest and pointing viciously at Jon. 

At first, he felt nothing, just a tiny prickle on his skin. Then he realized: The prickling sensation wasn’t his skin forming little goosebumps. It was tiny spiders, climbing up his arms and neck and face. He would shriek, but they’d already weaved little strands around his lips. 

“Jon!” 

“Mmmmf! Mmm mmm!” 

Annabelle held a finger to her lips mockingly, “Told you there would be consequences.” 

She clasped her hands, “Now, it’s been so much fun staying with all of you, but I have business to attend to. Sam, get the avatar ready. We’ll need him,” 

Sam opened the car door, gruffly saying something and reaching into the car. Out of the car, they pulled a man, in a yellow shirt and black tie and looking quite worse for wear. Carlos gasped and choked on his words. 

“Kevin, my dear.” Annabelle purred, sharp nails skittering across his face. “Would you be so kind as to help me find an exit from this horrid desert?” 

Kevin did something he didn’t do often. He frowned. Just slightly. But enough to betray his true unease. “Are you sure? The outside world is an odd place and scary place! I mean – people go there and don’t come back for years.” 

(The only reason Jon didn’t snort at the irony of this statement was the gag of spider silk) 

She tutted, shaking her head, “Oh Kevin, please? If we can expand the word of joy to the outside world, imagine what we could accomplish.” 

“Don’t help her, Kevin!” Carlos pleaded. 

Kevin lit up at her words. “I hadn’t thought about that! Wow!” 

“Kevin no!” 

“It’s fine! Don’t worry!” Kevin replied cheerfully, “I’m going to help spread the joyful news. Could you imagine? So many new members for the congregation. Oh, happy days!” 

A yellow glow emanated from him as he searched. Martin watched in dread as Kevin raised a hand and pointed in a direction, away from the mountain. 

“Don’t do this, Kevin. It’s not worth-” 

“Right! I'll drive!” Kevin said cheerfully, fully ignoring his words. Carlos couldn’t figure out if it was the web’s influence, Kevin’s already skewed moral compass or a combination of both that made him drive away. But away the car went, Annabelle smiling victoriously in the shotgun seat. 

~ 

“Look at us,” Basira sneered, “fucking flies trapped in a web, huh?” 

Daisy had stopped struggling against her bonds. It wasn’t of any use. Instead, she lay tens against the ground, ears flat, eyes narrow. A growl came from her lips but it wasn’t the growl of a hunter, Basira knew (she’d heard that growl enough times). It was the growl of an animal trapped, trying to defend itself. 

“I’m not gonna hurt you, you know that right?” she swallowed back her tears at the thought, “Do you even remember me?” 

Daisy continued to rumble. It was then Basira noticed the shotgun. Still clutched in her hands. 

They had been united against a common enemy. The centipede. Like many times before, they had had to stick together to defeat a potential danger. 

But now? 

She knew the things Daisy had done. Had for a while. The horrific things she herself had witnessed and never said a thing about. Things she herself had a hand in. She was as guilty as Daisy, really. 

“I’m not naïve, I know what we did.” Daisy snarled, “Yeah, yeah. I know you know it too, under all that hunt and bloodlust. We hurt innocent people. You killed. And I helped cover for you out of some misplaced rationalization.” 

“What we both did? Unforgivable.” Daisy whimpered, “Well tough shit, we both need to hear this. We’ve done too much to ever be forgiven for our actions. But even though we won't be forgiven, we can at least try to clean up things. Apologize. Turn around our behavior.” 

Lifting a hand, she slowly neared Daisy. The hunter snarled and thrashed and then stilled as Basira’s hand fell on her back, right above her daisy-shaped scar. 

“I know it's hard but too bad, you have to change. You have to stop killing innocents. Stop hunting.” 

Daisy’s growl began anew, louder than ever. Basira felt the tremors in her hand. Either this was the best thing she would ever do, or she wouldn’t have a hand when she got out of this desert. 

Basira almost laughed when she remembered the backpack. Nevertheless, she dug out the Nutella, the iPod, a big t-shirt Daisy had worn after the buried. Because it was the only one in Daisy’s closet that didn’t make her feel like she was choking. 

“Here,” Basira offered, placing the objects around Daisy’s line of view, “remember who you are, or something.” 

Daisy’s growls had stopped entirely. Sharp eyes darting around, unable to escape the ruins of her life after the coffin. She whined, panting at the conflict going on inside her very being. 

Daisy made her choice. She licked the Nutella jar and flicked her ears forward. In her eyes, a silent promise. 

“Good-” 

“Basira! Do you need help?” 

It was Martin. He, Jon, Cecil, and Carlos were all free. Jon still scratched absently near his mouth, shuddering. 

Martin shook his little pocket knife, “It took a while, but we’re free! Guess the web is no match for your average kitchen knife-” his eyes went big as Daisy locked gazes with him, “U-um, huh, should we, um-?” 

“Give me.” 

Basira sawed off their bonds, despite Martin’s mumbled protest. 

“I - are you sure-?” 

“It’s fine, Martin.” Jon assured, voice ominous and flooded with static, “she’s safe...for now.” 

“Can’t believe Kevin just ditched us like that,” Carlos sighed, “I guess his beliefs are important to him.” 

“Maybe he’s just a jerk,” Cecil muttered weakly. 

“ _Wow_ , _O-ho-kay_. Are you jealous?” 

“No!...” Cecil argued, “Just acknowledging that his priorities are not exactly perfect-“ 

“And I’m going to throw up.” Basira finished, standing, hand never leaving Daisy's fur

“Come on, let’s go get Annabelle. Once and for all.” 

~ 

“Sam! Get the chains,” 

The sheriff grunted, hauling a pile of thick metal links for the door. Hammering them into the sand, they smiled at their handiwork. Red and blue lights of the other secret police vehicles illuminated the sudden nightfall of the desert otherworld. 

“I hope Carlos isn’t too upset I left,” Kevin said hesitantly, the toe of his shoe grinding into the sand, “I hope he understands how important this is to me! I mean, spreading the joy and wonder of our congregation?” his smile was small and barely there but so real, “It would mean the world to me...” 

Annabelle smiled as well. A victorious smile. “I’m sure it would, Kevin. But you must stay here, to attend to Desert Bluffs” _and stay out of our ways_ , she didn’t add. 

“The high priestess! Would you like to do the honors?” 

Her floppy yellow hat flopped in excitement as she bounded towards the door. The sheriff, their police, Annabelle, Kevin. Neither of them could contain their excitement as the priestess lifted her foot and planted it in the doorway- 

“You’ve gotten sloppy, Annabelle.” 

The spider hissed, surprised to hear his voice but not showing it. Jon was standing still on a hill of sand just a few feet above her. Behind him were all the rest of his pathetic little gang. Everyone else seemed afraid of them though. The sheriff swore and ran behind their quivering policemen. The high priestess nearly fainted, running away and cowering behind a car. Even Kevin seemed enthralled. The group seemed to glow green in the darkness, all watched and _protected_ by The Archivist. 

Annabelle laughed at this, “As if you could protect anyone, Archivist. Look at the hunters, they’re struggling not to lunge and try to kill me, which they won't.” 

Daisy growled, ears going back until Basira placed a hand on her shoulder. Basira’s gaze was steely and cold. She knew what Daisy was feeling, and how easy it would be to let her kill Annabelle and solve things once and for all. But then they might never get Daisy back again. Basira was not willing to risk that. 

“The scientist and the radio host both are no heroes.” Annabelle continued, clearly enjoying this, “They work from the sidelines, gathering data from those actually risking their lives and never helping until after the danger is past.” 

Carlos and Cecil did not move. They trusted Jon and his plan. It didn’t help the guilt, though. 

“And you, Martin.” Annabelle laughs, “You know Jon will never be human, right? You will have to deal with his hunger for knowledge forever. Who knows? One day he might finally snap and feed on _your_ fears-” 

“He wouldn’t do that-” 

“Martin,” Jon said softly, a hand softly landing on Martin’s arm, “it’s okay.” 

“What did you even think you were going to accomplish by facing me again, Archivist? You can’t smite me,” she declared, “My spiders can weave you into a cocoon faster than you could get your little mantra out.” 

Jon laughed bitterly, “I’m not the one who's going to be killing you, Annabelle. You already set that trap for yourself,” 

“What nonsense are you spitting now, Archivist?” Annabelle said, grinning. But inside her stomach twisted in concern. She was weaving a very intricate web and one wrong strand would mean the difference between victory and defeat.

“ _**Don’t you feel it, Annabelle?** _ ” Jon asked eyes a wicked, poisonous green. Ready to soak up her agony. 

She felt something. A small tremble, right under her feet. She looked down and saw the sand begin to bounce and shake as if they too were desperate to escape. Kevin sprinted away from her and she watched him run and felt the devastation play upon her face. 

_No._

The centipede had originally been hunting Daisy, who seemed like an easy target, as she was isolated and alone in the desert. But after their fight, the centipede had been left injured and scared, and had been looking for new prey. A new scent to follow. 

And when Annabelle and her hundreds of spiders had shown up. That much prey? Well... 

The centipede could get a taste for spiders. 

Annabelle didn’t even get to scream as the large crushing mandibles enclosed her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: Centipedes have been genetically bred to prefer eating evil people


	13. To a New Start

[EXT. LONDON, A MONTH LATER]

[TAPE CLICKS ON]

[CAFÉ SOUNDS.]

ARCHIVIST: ( _ sighs _ ) It’s nice to see you, Georgie

GEORGIE: Yeah, well, this better not be any Archive bullshit, yeah?

ARCHIVIST:  _ (bitter laugh) _ Don’t worry, It’s not like that. I just wanted to.... Catch up after everything

GEORGIE: ( _ slightly surprised _ ) Hm...That’s quite mature of you.

ARCHVIST: Y-yes, well – hm.

GEORGIE: ( _ bubbly laughter _ ) You’re still as awkward as you were in Uni though!

ARCHIVIST: ( _ small amused huff _ )

[SOUNDS OF CUPS BEING PLACED ON WOODEN TABLE]

ARCHIVIST: Ah, thank you.

GEORGIE: ( _ overlapping _ ) Thanks.

[THE SIPPING OF COFFEE. GEORGIE SIGHS]

GEORGIE: So, what’s up? Did you end up going to Night Vale, or?

ARCHIVIST: Yes, that. We did – go there. And it is ( _ there is a laughter in his words _ )  _ way _ weirder than you could ever imagine.

GEORGIE: Wow. High praise coming from you.

ARCHIVIST: Seriously!

[CHAIR SQUEAKS AS JON SCOOTS FORWARD}

ARCHIVIST: ( _ excited and horrified at the same time) _ It-it felt almost like... I don’t know. Like someone had dreamed it up, or something.

GEORGIE: Mmm, (drinks coffee)

ARCHIVIST: ( _ cont _ .) I mean, every time I learned something new about the town, it-it just seemed to sound worse! Cecil – he kept describing it so  _ nonchalantly _ -

GEORGIE: ( _ interrupting) _ Whose Cecil?

ARCHIVIST: And-What?

GEORGIE: Cecil?  Who's that?

ARCHIVIST: Oh. A friend. He, um, lives in Night Vale with his husband Carlos... I’m - uh – we – me and Martin, we’re planning to invite them in the holidays actually.  So you might meet them.

[FAINTLY HE SIPS HIS COFFEE AS GEORGIE TALKS]

GEORGIE: ( _ amused _ ) Heh. I’ll have to interview him for my podcast, then. ( _ visibly  _ smiling) Melanie will be  ecstatic . She’s always been  frustrated with the lack of evidence for that episode.

[THE ARCHIVIST HUMS]

GEORGIE: So... changing topics...

ARCHIVIST: Hmm?

GEORGIE: How is Daisy? And Basira?

[A PAUSE. SOMEONE IN THE CAFÉ LAUGHS IN THE BACKGROUND]

GEORGIE: ( _ softly _ ) did you ever find her?

ARCHIVIST: We did. We found her...

ARCHIVIST: ( _ cont. _ ) it took a while for her to get... fully looking human again. She and Basira are doing their best.

[SHORT PAUSE]

ARCHIVIST: They’re leading a lot of campaigns against police brutality, exposing the system. It’s... It’s progress.

[SMALL FABRIC RUSTLE AS GEORGIE REACHES OUT TO COVER JON’S HAND)

GEORGIE: ( _ softly)  _ And how are you and Martin, if you don’t mind me asking?

[THE ARCHIVIST SIGHS, LONG AND WEARLY. HE SOUNDS SO TIRED]

ARCHIVIST: We have our bad days and good days, me and Martin. We’re making it work but...

GEORGIE: But?

ARCHIVIST: It just... we defeated Jonah and Annabelle. We’re safe now. No looming danger to the universe, or whatever. ( _ he sounds like he’s trying to convince himself. Like he’s told himself this so many times before) _ Martin’s safe, and not really lonely anymore. I’m safe. Everyone’s fine, but-

[THE ARCHIVIST STRUGGLES FOR WORDS.]

ARCHIVIST: ( _ cont. _ ) It almost feels... boring? Anticipatory? And I hate it. I hate waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

GEORGIE: Have you told Martin this?

ARCHIVIST: ( _ small laugh) _ No. ( _ weakly)  _ he’s doing so well right now. He’s so happy... I don’t want to ruin it for him.

GEORGIE: Jon-

ARCHIVIST: I know, I know.

GEORGIE: ( _ persistent)  _ You’re always there for him, he’s going to be there for you too.

[THE ARCHIVIST IS SILENT. GEORGIE SIGHS]

GEORGIE: ( _ cont. _ ) Look, not telling him is only going to delay the inevitable. Eventually, you’ll freak out or something. ( _ she emphasizes her next few words) _ You need to communicate with him. Please.

ARCHIVIST: I’ll try...

GEORGIE: Good.

[THEY BOTH PAUSE]

GEORGIE: ( _ sincerely)  _ To a fresh start, right?

[SHE RAISES HER COFFEE MUG OFF THE TABLE, INTO THE AIR]

ARCHIVIST: ( _ skeptical) _ It’s 10 in the morning. You’re holding a coffee mug.

GEORGIE: Do you think I care?

[ARCHIVIST ALSO RAISES GLASS]

ARCHIVIST: ( _ hopeful _ ) No.

[SOUND OF MUGS CLINKING]

[TAPE CLICKS OFF]

**Author's Note:**

> (PS: I keep editing stuff in my fics. Sorry if you read this and are confused why it's so different than last time. I swear it's author edits and not The Spiral messing with your memory)


End file.
